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barakittens517 · 2 years

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PT II: The Finding

Summary: In which Ellis makes some friends! (kinda)

PT 1: The Lost PT III: The Reunion

Words: 3,851

Warnings: mentions of alcohol use, minor (slightly graphic) character death, minor religious themes

Pairing: Morpheus x gender neutral reader

Notes: Gifting a wayyy longer second part because I really want to get to the good shit!!! I'm kidding, but I promise this is going somewhere good (:

Tag List: @ponyboys-sunsets

Now you were awake, at a truck stop far from anywhere you’d been before. Your homicidal companion was preoccupied with one of the driver’s side wheels, and he couldn’t see you.

Now… Now’s your chance.

You hop over the car door and sling your backpack over your shoulder. You practically sprint towards the gas station, hoping and praying he won’t look up.

You make a beeline towards the middle aisle to hide behind the displays. So far, so good. You pretend to be fixated on the snacks, but you keep peeking over the aisle to make sure Rin is still outside.

“You findin’ everything all right?” a gruff voice asks from behind you. You jump at the sudden noise.

“Y-yeah, I think so,” you stutter. “Can’t decide between a Snickers and a Reese’s cup.”

The gas station attendant behind you chuckles. “That’s a tough one. My vote would be for the peanut butter.”

You offer a nervous smile and meet the attendant’s eyes. He’s older, likely in his fifties, with graying sideburns and a scuffed baseball hat with St. John’s Outfield Angels stitched on the front. The nametag on his collared shirt reads Ryan.

“Thank you, Ryan,” you say.

“Not a problem,” he replies. He tilts his head to the side as your eyes meet, and the strange look that follows makes your stomach flip. In less than a moment his friendly demeanor drops, and he falls to his knees in front of you with tears in his eyes.

“Jesus Christ!” you exclaim. His hands are clasped in prayer, and he’s rocking back and forth, muttering something under his breath. “Are you okay?” you ask. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see a man in a cream-colored jacket heading for the front doors.

Shit.

“Um, Ryan?” you ask. “Should I call an ambulance?” You crouch down as the bell on the front door rings out. Rin is here. You place a hand on Ryan’s shoulder, and he looks up at you.

“... Pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Mea culpa, mea culpa, oh God, get away from me!” he yells. You wrench your hand to your chest and fall backwards to the floor. You can see Rin watching with the ghost of a smile on his face.

Ryan starts sobbing in earnest now, pressing his palms into his eyes. “I’ve been a terrible man, a sinner and a liar an-and, oh, God forgive me, I am my father’s son!” he wails. You’re terrified, seemingly frozen in place less than a foot from him.

He looks up at you, eyes rimmed red, and that strange look returns. “Forgive me,” he whispers, so quiet you have to lean forward to hear him. At that moment he rips the ball point pen clipped to his pocket and clicks it open. “You have to forgive me,” he pleads, then plunges the tip into his neck.

“No!” you shriek, but it’s too late already. He’s hit a major artery, and he’s dead before his head even hits the tile. For the second time in twenty-four hours, you are covered in someone else’s blood.

Rin applauds from the front counter. “You know, I was wondering about you, Ellis. Thinking you might try and run like this, but now? Now, I think we’ll get along just fine.”

You wipe the blood from your cheek and try to remember what breathing feels like. “What… the fuck,” you whisper, and now the tears won’t stop streaming.

Living as long as you have was never this brutal. You avoided most confrontations. The only pain inflicted was on you, never anyone else.

Rin steps over the body in front of you and grabs your hand to pull you up. “I had a feeling about you. Come on, let’s, uh… let’s get you out of here.” You follow him blindly to the front of the store. “Go get in the car. I’m gonna grab a couple of things and I’ll follow you out,” he says, holding the door open.

You walk silently to the convertible and slink down into one of the seats. You unwrap Rin’s kerchief to wipe the blood off of your hands and find two disembodied eyeballs staring back at you from the cupholder.

What the fuck.

The alarm bells ringing in your head are muted by the general dissociation you feel. You’re still holding the now-half-melted peanut butter cups in your hand.

You’re startled by the slam of the car door. Rin is holding out a blue Gatorade.

“Here,” he says. “It’s gonna be a long drive, and we have a lot of catching up to do.”

You take a sip and choke- it’s definitely blue Gatorade, but it’s also definitely mixed with some kind of liquor. “We do?”

He grins as he starts the car and pulls onto the highway. “We do.”

You take longer sips of the Gatorade as he drives, grateful for the hydration and the alcohol. The panic you constantly felt is starting to wear off, enough for you to start questioning everything about your seemingly pointless existence.

“You seem to know a lot about what’s going on,” you start. “Who even are you?”

“You really wanna know?” he asks. You nod. “Well, let’s start with you. Ellis. Something tells me you’ve been passing through a lot of towns in your time.”

You recall your brief conversation at the bar, if you could even call it that. You sigh. “Um… yeah. I don’t- I guess I don’t remember where I started. It’s just been… a lot of years. Like… I don't know. I don’t really keep track anymore.”

Rin nods. You take another sip of the Gatorade, now half gone. The buzz is making you braver.

“I don’t die,” you say out loud, and the thought startles you. “I never have.” You think back as far as you can, just before the beginning. You were younger, but you looked the same. You always looked the same.

“Do you dream?” Rin asks. The idea of dreaming catches you off guard. You rarely sleep, and when you do, it’s never more than a couple hours.

“No,” you answer.

“What’s the earliest memory you have?” he asks.

You shrug. “Somewhere… there was a big war. In Europe. The first one,” you clarify.

“And you’ve always been by yourself?” he asks.

You think hard but come up blank. “I guess I don’t know. I think so. It’s all… blank.” He nods. You take another sip of Gatorade and grimace at the burn of liquor going down your throat. “What about you? Do you know me, or something?” you ask.

Rin smiles. “Know of you, maybe. I imagine we must’ve left around the same time.”

“Left where?” you ask.

“The Dreaming, Ellis. I left when the Creator abandoned it. Abandoned us.” The distinct malice in his tone makes you shiver.

“I’m sorry, the Creator? You mean, like, God?” You hadn’t thought about God in over a century. He didn’t seem to care much for you.

Rin laughs. “No, worse. Much worse. His name is Morpheus.”

Your head is spinning trying to follow his story. “So… so, what? What does he create?”

For the first time, Rin removes his sunglasses. Two mouths with perfectly white rows of teeth smile from his eye sockets.

“Jesus Christ,” you whisper under your breath. He smiles.

“He creates dreams,” Rin answers, “And nightmares. I suppose you don’t have to guess what that makes me.” A moment later, he replaces his glasses. You both sit in silence for a moment. “Make sense so far?” he asks.

“Y-yeah,” you stutter. “I think so.”

“He called me The Corinthian,” he says.

You nod. “Guess the name you told me wasn’t too far off,” you say. “I would’ve gone with Ian, I think.”

The Corinthian laughs. “I’ll take that into consideration next time.”

All things considered, you feel better. Lighter. The Corinthian isn’t going to kill you. You’ve been reassured about your existence- of course you never felt like you belonged. You don’t. Whatever the Dreaming is, that’s where you’re supposed to be.

You just don’t remember how you got here.

Or what that makes you.

You cross the state lines into Georgia quicker than you’d expected. The Corinthian drives like a bat out of hell, but you haven’t seen a single cop in hundreds of miles. You haven’t seen much of anyone, to be honest. And you’re grateful, in a sense. The last person that saw you stuck a Bic in his carotid.

The thought still makes you ill, a feeling even the liquor won’t help. The Corinthian pulls into a hotel parking lot and parks off to the side.

“Alright, so here’s the deal,” he starts. “I have a job to do.”

“Rose Walker,” you say. He nods.

“Now, I have reliable information that places her brother somewhere-” he motions to the highway going east- “around here. I intend to find him.”

“So you’re… dropping me off?” you ask. You didn’t usually stay at hotels, and you definitely weren’t looking forward to interacting with other people any time soon. You’d almost hoped the Corinthian would just take you with him, wherever he was going.

He nods. “There’s gonna be a convention here, the day after tomorrow. I’ll be back then, and I’ll have her little brother with me.” He holds his hand up to stop you from interrupting him. “Now, I understand there’s a lot you don’t know. That’s fine. You’ve been helpful up till now, so I’m willing to help you out. There’s already been rooms booked for me. You just hang out, and don’t cause too much trouble, and we’ll all be home free by the end of the week.”

You have so. Many. Questions. “A convention?”

The Corinthian grins proudly. “I’m their guest of honor. Get to make a speech and everything. Now, that room’s booked under ‘The Corinthian’. They’re, uh... They’re big fans of my work. You just tell ‘em you’re with me.”

“Okay.” You shift in the leather seat, unbuckling the belt to grab your backpack. “So I just… wait? And then what?”

His expression darkens. “I’ll take care of the rest. Just… stay in the room, okay? We don’t need you making anyone else off themselves with office supplies.” It’s a joke, but it stings. You force a smile anyways.

“No problem.” You slam the door closed- probably a little too forcefully, and start towards the front doors. The Corinthian leans out the window.

“Here!” he shouts, tossing a pair of black aviators at you. You hold them up and wave as he burns out onto the highway.

The pit in your stomach is growing, but you try not to think about it. Instead, you put the sunglasses on and try to focus on the convention decorations.

A red banner reads WELCOME CEREAL CONVENTION in bold red letters. You briefly wonder what in the fuck that actually means.

Inside, you find a line of people waiting to check in. The ones who already have are wearing name tags like The Choir Boy and The Good Doctor. As much as you want to know more, you remember the Corinthian’s warning. You’re supposed to stay in the room.

Minutes later, you reach the front desk. A very large man in cat ears is sitting behind it, propping up a clipboard on his stomach. “Name?” he asks.

“I’m, uh, I’m with the Corinthian,” you say. His name tag says Fun Land.

He looks down at his clipboard, then back at you, annoyed. “You’re not The Corinthian,” he states plainly.

“I know, I said I’m with him,” you repeat. Fun Land sighs.

“Fine, fine, whatever.” He rolls his eyes and crosses off a name on the clipboard. “Guest of honor gets free reign, I guess.” He hands you a lanyard with The Corinthian +1* scratched into the label and a room key with a number.

“Thank you,” you say.

“Yep,” Fun Land replies, looking over your shoulder towards the man behind you. “Next!”

You make your way upstairs and find your room. It’s a fancy suite- you assume presidential. Something about the Corinthian tells you he wouldn’t have it any other way.

You hang around for a bit, watching the cable channels on the TV until your stomach starts rumbling. You hadn’t really thought to pack food. You don’t want to risk adding to the Corinthian’s bill (if he was even going to be the one paying), but you do have cash. And there is a bar downstairs.

Without a second thought, you grab a handful of bills and stuff them into your front pocket. You take your name tag and the room key with you. You make your way downstairs to the hotel bar and pick a stool farthest from the door, away from most people.

They’re all grouped together like schools of fish, name tags proudly displayed. None of them make sense to you, but you’re glad you have yours.

You order two vodka lemonades and a platter of mozzarella sticks. The drinks are strong and the mozzarella sticks are piping hot. You’re done with the platter and both drinks before you even realize it.

The alcohol is kicking in, and you feel calmer about the situation you’re in. Normally you’d be panicking, surrounded by strange people, wearing sunglasses indoors in case you accidentally cause a suicide. Now you’re still panicking, but in a manageable sense. The panic is relegated to a small voice echoing in the very back of your mind. You sit up a little straighter as you order another drink.

One of the ladies from the smaller group breaks away and heads towards you, waving. “You’re with the Corinthian, I see,” she smiles. Her name tag reads Dark Angel.

“Yes,” you answer, “I got here a little early.”

“Are you a fellow collector?” she asks, eyebrows raised.

“Absolutely,” you answer without hesitation. You have no idea what you’ve just agreed with, or what a collector does. You’re assuming it is not, as the sign would have you think, about cereal.

She grins. “That’s fantastic news. Now, you certainly don’t need to make a speech or anything, but you’re more than welcome to join the conference activities. We’re holding several workshops over the next couple of days, and I’m hosting the panel tonight.” She motions to the bartender. “Anything they order, put it on my tab.” She touches your shoulder and winks before rejoining her group.

Was she… flirting with you?

Regardless, you take her up on the offer and order two more vodka lemonades and a basket of chicken wings. It’s basically dinner, right? The bartender hands you a pre-mixed bottle the size of a pint of whiskey.

Once the basket of chicken wings is gone, you decide it’s time to head to bed. You mentally pat yourself on the back for causing no harm, even though you didn’t listen to the Corinthian entirely. Besides, it’s not like he’s going to find out.

You take the bottle of vodka lemonade with you, giving the bartender a nod of thanks for the life hack. Why order a bunch of little drinks when you could carry a whole portable bottle of them? You stumble into the carpeted hallway and hear Dark Angel’s voice coming from a conference room off to the left.

You peek in the doorway. There’s a crowded auditorium. It looks like she’s giving a TEDTalk of some sort. Huh.

You sneak into the back of the room- only for a moment, you tell yourself. Just to see what the convention’s about.

“I see a lot of old faces in this crowd, and a lot of new ones,” Dark Angel says. She winks at you from the stage, and you raise your bottle to her. She smiles. “I’m glad we could all make it this year. Aside from The Family Man, of course, but that’s no bother.”

You zone out for a moment to take a look at the people seated around you. Something about them makes you incredibly uncomfortable. They’re hanging on every word she says. Some even have pens and pads of paper to take notes.

“This… business that we’re in, it’s hard work, isn’t it?” Dark Angel asks. The crowd murmurs in agreement. “We don’t get a lot of acknowledgement for our successes. However, I’m hoping to change that in the near future. Considering our remarkable turnout, I’ve been talking with Nimrod.” She gestures towards a shorter man seated in the front, wearing large glasses. He smiles nervously at her acknowledgement.

“The organizers of the convention have been talking, and we’d like to introduce a cash prize for one very special collector each year.” You perk up at the mention of money. You wouldn’t mind winning, granted, you’re not even sure what winning looks like.

Dark Angel smiles. “Now, this would be completely voluntary. Anyone wanting to sign up would need to cough up $30 to be considered in the running. Does that sound fair?” she asks. The crowd nods in unison.

“Now, I understand we all have our motivations for collecting. Nimrod and I thought this would add a bit of fun into the mix. There will be many opportunities to sign up over the next few days, and the winner will be announced at next year’s convention. Any questions so far?”

A man in the third row, dressed in a three-piece suit and hat, raises his hand. “How is the winner decided?” he asks.

Dark Angel nods. “Good question. The organizers of the convention and a few volunteers will need to keep record of those who sign up. They’ll watch for relevant news in the next year. A collection that makes headlines will be worth the most points. And, of course, you’ll want to keep track of your own. Next year, we’ll collaborate with all participants and tally up scores. The first winner will be announced by the guest speaker.”

“What if we don’t make the news?” someone shouts.

Dark Angel shrugs. “Then you’re not a very good collector, are you?” The crowd ‘oohs’ in response.

You take another sip of your drink. They’re definitely not talking about fucking Cocoa Puffs, that’s for sure.

“Before we move on, some final notes. The last day for a body to qualify will be a week before the convention. No last-minute points will be counted, especially near or on convention grounds. We don’t shit where we eat, right?” She pauses for maximum effect. You start to feel sick again, and not because of the vodka. Something is seriously wrong here.

“With that out of the way, I’d like to invite our panel members on stage. Please welcome Scratch, Highlander, Uncle Charlie, and our youngest member to date, FUBAR!” Four men take their seats behind the table on stage.

“Uncle Charlie and Scratch are two of our oldest members. FUBAR and Highlander are two of our newest. Now, I’ll be moderating questions and moving the discussion along, but the rest I will leave up to the four of you. Let’s start with an easy one. What inspired you to begin collecting?” Dark Angel asks.

FUBAR answers first, proudly motioning to the American flag pin on his jacket. “I joined the military out of high school, and let me just say, they let you do anything once you’re off base. They’re basically giving you step-by-step instructions on how to get away with murder. And I’m good at it! Why would being discharged stop me?”

“A war machine making war machines,” Dark Angel comments wistfully. “What about you, Scratch?”

Scratch is a middle-aged man wearing a stained tank top and cargo shorts. His steel-toe construction boots stick out like clown shoes under the table. His arms and legs are covered in cuts and scrapes in various stages of healing.

“Well, shit,” he starts, “I never did get professional training. S’mostly just compulsion, I guess. Can’t fuckin’ stand the girlies… Only way to shut ‘em up is tearin’ their throats out, apparently!” Scratch guffaws, and the crowd laughs.

Okay, now you’re going to throw up. It’s no wonder The Corinthian is the guest speaker- you literally met him in the middle of killing someone. Your blood runs cold. Every person in this room has killed. Even you, come to think of it.

You stumble blindly out of the auditorium and immediately throw up in a large potted plant beside the door. You need to get back to your room, like now.

“Rough night?” someone behind you asks. You turn and see a younger guy with long black hair staring at the plant in front of you. His name tag reads Blade Runner. You don’t really want to know why.

“Yeah,” you reply weakly. He reaches for your hand and pulls you up to stand next to him. “I should probably just go to bed.”

Blade Runner doesn’t let go of your arm. “You know, I’ve got just the thing to sober you up. In my room, of course.” He smiles, revealing a row of impossibly sharp teeth. He pulls you closer to himself and you both make your way towards the elevator. “Now, don’t go causing trouble for me, please.”

“O-okay,” you whisper. The ride up is silent, save for the stereotypically quiet elevator jazz in the background. You briefly consider pressing the alarm button, but assume Blade should be considered armed and dangerous.

When the doors open on the fourth floor, he shoves you roughly into the hallway. Your vodka sloshes onto the carpet.

“I’m in 1419,” he says, and you follow the room numbers down to the last door on the right. Your entire body is screaming to make a run for it, but you’re both intoxicated and unarmed. Like an idiot.

The walls are covered in old black and white photos, pinned with notes attached to each of them. You recognize some of the convention members. He’s been keeping track of them, stalking them.

“Impressed?” You hear him behind you, but it’s too late. Excruciating pain radiates from the crown of your skull, and then nothing.

For the first time in over a century, you dream. Well, not really. But for once it’s not just black.

You’re in a landscape of black sand, with mountains lining the horizon. Enormous ivory gates rise up in front of you, carved with details you do not understand.

You nervously walk forward, placing your hands to push them open. The doors creak ominously, but do not move.

“Hello?” you shout. “Is somebody there?”

Silence.

“Where the fuck am I…” you mutter, stepping back to analyze the carvings.

You’ve returned, a voice echoes around you.

“I’ve never been here before,” you reply. “I don’t know what this is.”

The ground begins to rumble beneath you. The gates are shaking now, almost vibrating. You can see a sliver of sky between them as they open.

A shadowy, black figure is standing on the other side. You get the feeling you should already know who they are, but your brain simply won’t place the name.

You will remember.

#the sandman #Morpheus #Dream of the Endless #Morpheus x reader #Dream x gn! reader #The Corinthian #netflix sandman

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howieabel · 10 months

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Vladimir Mayakovsky 1916

To All and Everything

No. It can’t be. No! You too, beloved? Why? What for? Darling, look - I came, I brought flowers, but, but... I never took silver spoons from your drawer!

Ashen-faced, I staggered down five flights of stairs. The street eddied round me. Blasts. Blares. Tires screeched. It was gusty. The wind stung my cheeks. Horn mounted horn lustfully.

Above the capital’s madness I raised my face, stern as the faces of ancient icons. Sorrow-rent, on your body as on a death-bed, its days my heart ended.

You did not sully your hands with brute murder. Instead, you let drop calmly: “He’s in bed. There’s fruit and wine On the bedstand’s palm.”

Love! You only existed in my inflamed brain. Enough! Stop this foolish comedy and take notice: I’m ripping off my toy armour, I, the greatest of all Don Quixotes!

Remember? Weighed down by the cross, Christ stopped for a moment, weary. Watching him, the mob yelled, jeering: “Get movin’, you clod!”

That’s right! Be spiteful. Spit upon him who begs for a rest on his day of days, harry and curse him. To the army of zealots, doomed to do good, man shows no mercy!

That does it!

I swear by my pagan strength - gimme a girl, young, eye-filling, and I won’t waste my feelings on her. I'll rape her and spear her heart with a gibe willingly.

An eye for an eye!

A thousand times over reap of revenge the crops' Never stop! Petrify, stun, howl into every ear: “The earth is a convict, hear, his head half shaved by the sun!”

An eye for an eye!

Kill me, bury me - I’ll dig myself out, the knives of my teeth by stone — no wonder!- made sharper, A snarling dog, under the plank-beds of barracks I’ll crawl, sneaking out to bite feet that smell of sweat and of market stalls!

You'll leap from bed in the night’s early hours. “Moo!” I’ll roar. Over my neck, a yoke-savaged sore, tornados of flies will rise. I'm a white bull over the earth towering!

Into an elk I’ll turn, my horns-branches entangled in wires, my eyes red with blood. Above the world, a beast brought to bay, I'll stand tirelessly.

Man can’t escape! Filthy and humble, a prayer mumbling, on cold stone he lies. What I’ll do is paint on the royal gates, over God’s own the face of Razin.

Dry up, rivers, stop him from quenching his thirst! Scorn him! Don’t waste your rays, sun! Glare! Let thousands of my disciples be born to trumpet anathemas on the squares! And when at last there comes, stepping onto the peaks of the ages, chillingly, the last of their days, in the black souls of anarchists and killers I, a gory vision, will blaze!

It’s dawning, The sky’s mouth stretches out more and more, it drinks up the night sip by sip, thirstily. The windows send off a glow. Through the panes heat pours. The sun, viscous, streams down onto the sleeping city.

O sacred vengeance! Lead me again above the dust without and up the steps of my poetic lines. This heart of mine, full to the brim, in a confession I will pour out.

Men of the future! Who are you? I must know. Please! Here am I, all bruises and aches, pain-scorched... To you of my great soul I bequeath the orchard.

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inkykeiji · 3 years

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break my heart in two, but when it heals it beats for you

character: zenin naoya

genre: smut + angst

notes: aaaaah this is my lil submission for the sewer’s soulmate syndrome collab (and my first collab ever waaah!!!) it’s a curseless soulmate AU with the tiniest hint of the zenin’s being a prominent crime family. please please heed the warnings!! | title credit: back to you by selena gomez

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, incest (reader and naoya are half siblings), mentioned death of a family member (mother), naoya being his misogynistic self, excessive use of the word ‘Daddy’ to refer to their biological father, one (1) instance of physical abuse, size kink/size difference, mentioned relationship between a university student (reader) and their TA, infidelity, one (1) mention of Daddy being yakuza, age difference, spanking done by reader’s biological father, toxic relationships, minimal prep, rough sex, a hint of degradation

words: 9.5k

synopsis:

Except the torture doesn’t stop, even when you’re gone, because he’s assaulted with thoughts of you the very moment you leave—what you’re doing, who you’re with, if he plagues your mind as much as you plague his—you’re like a fucking sickness, a parasite that burrows deep between the folds and tissues of his brain, infecting it, and he’s hopeless to find a cure.

It’s a few days after his twenty-ninth birthday, the night you appear—unannounced, uninvited, and an absolute fucking mess—falling into his father’s arms the moment he opens the door, fingers curling in the material of his cashmere button up and tugging as powerful sobs rip through your entire body, violent tremors following.

It’s fucking disgusting, the way his father reacts. Naoya watches the entire thing unfold from the shadows of the living room, nose wrinkled in distaste, features twisted in aversion and saturated in abhorrence.

Because his father lets you cling to him like a child—a grown woman, gripping a seventy-one year old man like a sniveling little girl—as he manages to scoop you up into his arms, collapsing onto his favourite armchair with you in his lap, hushing you gently as he rocks you back and forth, large hands stroking your shuddering back as you nuzzle your puffy, snot-stained face into his chest, wailing out Daddy!

It’s the first time Naoya’s ever seen his father behave in such a way, revolt churning his stomach as he observes the quite frankly unfamiliar man in front of him. It makes him fucking sick to watch, acidic bile rising in his throat until it stings the back of his tongue, face souring as he swallows it back down.

And you can’t even manage to force words through your stuttering breathing and hiccupped little sobs, unable to explain the situation at all without being overwhelmed by another fresh wave of tears, crashing over your body as you fall back into the sanctuary of his father’s arms, face buried in his neck, now soiled with spit and salt water.

“Naoya,” his father calls, voice curt and stern and demanding, snapping Naoya’s gaze to his own in an instant. “A glass of water, please?”

Naoya scoffs, narrowing his eyes. “What the fuck do I look like to you? The help?”

And Naoya’s no stranger to the level gaze his father fixes him with, has seen that same look etched into his father’s face more times than he can count, eyebrows pinched and mouth pressed in a firm, fine line, chest rising as he inhales slowly, calmly, deeply, then exhales through flared nostrils.

“You look like a good big brother who’s on his way to get his baby sister some water,”

Ah, right, that’s who you are—the bastard, Daddy’s little mistake, an ugly, irreversible stain on their family’s prestigious name.

“That bitch is not my sister,” he grumbles as he stomps from the room and towards the kitchen to fetch you a drink, huffing under his breath about being treated like a fucking woman, yet obeying his father’s orders nonetheless.

It turns out, Naoya learns, that your mother has passed away, leaving his poor bastard of a baby sister all alone in the world, with nowhere to go—and you’ve come here to ask for shelter and food, just until you get on your feet.

It’s fucking pathetic, as far as Naoya’s concerned, shaking his head in condescending disbelief with a cruel snort. It’s almost difficult to believe that you, undoubtedly the family disgrace; you, with your dirty blood and the dishonour you haul around everywhere with you, have the balls to come crawling to his father begging for support. You’re an adult, for Christ’s sake, and you should act like one, should be out scouring the earth for some equally pathetic man to serve like you ought to, like you would have, if you knew your place. Maybe then, Naoya would have a shred of respect for you.

Maybe.

“How selfish. Daddy already pays for your tuition, why should he provide you with housing, too? Are you really that incompetent? Can’t do a thing for yourself, huh?”

Your head whips around to face him, almost as if you’re startled by his presence, by his voice addressing you directly, a sharp gasp falling from your lips the moment your eyes meet.

It’s the first time you’ve actually looked at him since you’ve arrived, the first time your gaze has connected with his, eyes bloodshot and gleaming as crystal tears stream down your cheeks, excess water clinging to spidery lashes, clumped together in spikes.

God, you’re beautiful.

It kicks him right in the motherfucking chest, hard enough that he stumbles back a few feet into the stone fireplace, a hand gripping the mantle for stability while his body caves in on itself. A spear of agony sears through his body, slicing clean through all of his vital organs as you choke out an apology punctuated with an honorific, head shaking in jerky little motions as your tongue struggles to form words to explain yourself.

And he’s never felt anything like it in his entire life, skin feeling as though it’s been set ablaze from the inside, thick black smoke filling is lungs as he wheezes on an inhale, strangled by it.

“Naoya,” his father snaps, eyes wide and scorching. “Leave.”

Each step away from the living room feels heavier than the last, as if his blood’s been replaced by lead, by rapidly drying concrete, rendering him incapable of lifting his feet from the floor, dragging them against the tile until it’s fucking painful, calves and thighs tingling as if the blood flow’s been entirely obstructed, muscles quivering and exhausted.

“It’s okay,” he can hear his father’s faint voice soothing you, each of your sniffles feeling like a sharp little thorn straight to his heart, each of your tiny I’m sorry’s carving out a vacant, phantom wound in his chest. “Shh, it’s alright, Daddy’s here, Daddy’s got you,”

“Pathetic,” Naoya spits to the empty hallway, though the word wavers, catching a little in his throat, letters scraping the gummy walls as he forces them from his mouth, leaving scalding little blisters in its wake.

It’s then that Naoya decides he hates you; standing motionless in the dark hallway, feet inexplicably bolted to the floor and chest burning with some unknown emotion, a fire that blazes and rages, flares and thrashes, with each of your hitched little apologies, his teeth clenched together so tightly he’s surprised they don’t crack.

But it’s only after your sobs have calmed, father having reduced them to soft sniffles and half-hiccups through tender words and sweet affirmations, only after Naoya knows that you’ll be staying here for the night—that you’ll be safe—that he regains control over his limbs, that he rips his cement-filled feet from the floor and trudges towards his bedroom, scalding inferno dulled to simmering coals and faint flickering cinders.

He doesn’t think about it—isn’t going to think about it, refuses to waste his time or energy on such absurdity, refuses to allow his father’s preposterous decisions and ridiculous sentiments soak up space in his consciousness.

And he absolutely refuses to think about is the way your sudden presence punched a sharp gasp from his chest, the way he suddenly feels incomplete, like something’s missing, now that you aren’t within arms-reach, the way that he lost control over his entire body for the first time in his fucking life, in that hallway, just a few moments ago.

✰ ✰ ✰

His father—your father—falls in love with you almost immediately; having only met you briefly a few times before this, despite sending your mother multiple cheques every month for over twenty years.

It’s truly deplorable, positively sickening to watch the way his eyes light up when you come skipping into the living room after your afternoon university classes, dropping a fat, almost obscene kiss to Daddy’s cheek before plopping down on his lap as you chatter on about your day—about what you learned in lecture today, about the essay you got back (top of your class, of course), about your cute TA with the white hair and crystal eyes who always seems to conjure a bashful expression the moment you mention his name.

Naoya watches the entire thing unfold day after day, a deep sneer etched into his face, jaw clenched so hard it begins to ache, light eyes glaring daggers in your direction.

Something akin to jealousy, a creature with glowing emerald eyes and gnashing teeth and razor claws that slash and tear at the pit of his belly, roars and rattles the ribs that keep it caged within his chest, gnawing on the bones every time his—your—father makes you giggle, your eyes sparkling with adoration as you gaze at him; every time lithe fingers brush hair back from your face or a large palm settles on the crown of you head, petting you gently; every time you nuzzle into his neck, curling up comfortably—perfectly—in Daddy’s big, strong arms that keep you protected from all of the bad, from all of the evils of this world, from him, the big brother that loathes you.

It’s unsettling, almost sad in a sense, seeing his father fall from grace, observing the way you decay his persona so quickly, eating away at it like corrosive acid, rotting him from the inside out; the way he morphs from one of the most powerful and feared Yakuza bosses into soft, sticky, sweet putty in your hands the moment you appear; the way your presence shatters his tough, hard exterior and renders him gentle and tender—gentler and tenderer than he’s ever behaved with Naoya or any of his older brothers.

He can’t fucking stand to watch it, despises every single thing about it, positively detests the inexplicable, uncontrollable sensations that thrash and thunder inside of him, an unusual mixture of envy and melancholy, of wrath and desire, combined to create something toxic, something hazardous, something uncontainable that erodes his senses and mind, leaking into his bloodstream and poisoning his thoughts.

Because his gaze stays glued to you the moment you enter a room, like he’s bewitched by you, cursed by you the way his father has become, unable to rip his eyes from your form until you exit.

Except the torture doesn’t stop, even when you’re gone, because he’s assaulted with thoughts of you the moment you leave—what you’re doing, who you’re with, if he plagues your mind as much as you plague his—you’re like a fucking sickness, a parasite that burrows deep between the folds and tissues of his brain, infecting it, and he’s hopeless to find a cure.

And the worst part, the worst part is that he hasn’t a clue why. He doesn’t know why he feels the way he does, why you evoke such strong emotions—emotions he’s never felt before, emotions he doesn’t have a name for—or why, suddenly, everything feels wrong, off, whenever you’re not around.

It’s fucking annoying. Those tiny, raised bumps on the inside of his wrist—shaped in the form of a zodiac constellation, a mark everyone is born with, a mark that supposedly hints at your soulmate—burn and tingle as he meditates on these notions, blunt nails scratching viciously at his skin.

✰ ✰ ✰

Daddy grants you permission to stay at the estate for as long as you’d like, because of course he does, a victim to the spell you’ve cast. He even gives you your own room, helps you pick out furniture and takes you shopping for new clothes. You promise to do your share around the house—pinky swear—and, to Naoya’s immense dissatisfaction, you don’t disappoint.

No. Instead, you excel.

Those pretty little words weren’t empty promises—you begin cooking all of the meals, taking on the task to do the dishes entirely by yourself, tending to the house and the garden outside, even going as far to aid the help in their daily cleaning routines, until Daddy tells you it isn’t necessary.

And you manage to capture almost everyone’s hearts through your deeds and duties, through your kind and compassionate nature, through your being attentive and, for the most part, obedient—but most important of all, being family oriented.

You do the laundry when it needs to be done. You keep the house spotless and the kitchen sparkling. You learn everyone’s favourite dishes and then dedicate hours upon hours to perfecting them.

Naoya observes you throughout it all, sharp eyes following your movements, watching as you expertly tend to everyone’s needs, almost as if you know what they’ll require before they do.

You’d be perfect wife material, if you weren’t his sister—he catches the thought as it drifts through his mind—a sentiment that’s almost involuntary, unthinking in nature— and strangles it with his bare hands, stomps on it until it’s nothing but dust.

Because what’s more infuriating than anything else is that you are a good woman, a perfect woman, a woman who—for the most part—understands her place and duty in the household; or, at least, you did, before Daddy began spoiling you rotten.

It earns you the nickname princess from your favourite nii-san, hissed through gritted teeth with narrowed eyes and scrunched up noses, drenched in condescension and sprinkled with artificial icing sugar—a nickname Daddy irritatingly and affectionately adopts, extracting all of the patronization Naoya had imbued it with and stuffing it full of love.

You aren’t invincible, though, no matter how precious you are, how sweet your voice becomes when you bat your eyelashes and fix a pout on your lips, how much Daddy is barely able to deny you.

Because Daddy’s incessant spoiling does eventually bite him in the ass, just like Naoya knew it would.

✰ ✰ ✰

“But Daddy,” you whine, wearing your prettiest pout and cutest puppy-dog eyes, lethal weapons that are nearly foolproof, your most cherished expressions that grant you almost everything you want. “It’ll just be for a little, I promise! Just a drink or two!”

“I said no—”

“But everyone’s going! Even my professors will be there; I’m expected to show up!” Voice rising in pitch, your arms cross over your chest as eyebrows knit deeply and a lip juts out further, looking about two seconds away from stomping your foot.

Naoya would be amused, really, to see a grown woman acting like a petulant fucking child over some inconsequential party being thrown by the department, if he didn’t feel like his heart was ripping itself to pieces with your teary expression and soft half-sniffles, with the knowledge that, if you attend, you’ll be with him.

“You have an exam tomorrow,” Daddy reminds you in a sigh, dipping his head to scrutinize you over the rim of his reading glasses. “Are they not all required to write the same exam as well?”

“Well, they are, but—”

“But they didn’t spend their study break out gallivanting with their TA, did they?”

Your eyes widen for a second, shocked by the words leaving your father’s mouth, but the expression is gone in an instant, morphed into incredulousness, eyes rolling as your tongue tuts in disbelief.

“Please, we were studying,”

The chuckle that escapes your father’s lips is anything but warm; it’s cruel and condescending, a sharp slap to the face, your bottom lip beginning to tremble as he snaps his book shut, the sound echoing throughout the living room.

“You must think me a real fool,” he’s almost snickering as he throws his glasses on the coffee table, grunting a little as he stands from his armchair and raises himself to his full height, towering over you. “Do you think Daddy’s stupid?”

“What? No, of course not—”

“Then why are you lying to him?”

“I-I’m not—”

“And you’re doing it again?”

Head shaking in jerky, quivering movements, your lips open and close, emitting nothing more but little squeaks of breath as you try to backtrack, managing to stammer out an apology.

“It’s a little late for that,” your father’s saying sternly, a large hand curling around your bicep as he yanks you towards him, beginning to haul you down the hall. “Good girls do not lie to their fathers,”

Naoya sits tense and coiled in his father’s armchair, a symphony of your cries mingled with harsh slaps of Daddy’s calloused palm against your smooth skin carrying throughout the house, and he swallows thickly, past the lump that’s lodged itself in the column of his throat, past the bitter acid rising in his chest, past the irregular thumping of his heart against his ribs.

Because he doesn’t know why your wails and squeals of Daddy! M’sorry! Daddy! make his cock throb and his chest ache—ache with longing, with want and desire, with jealousy—doesn’t know why he finds himself fucking his fist to those memories that same night, mind fixated on the quick glance he had caught through the sliver of the open door when he couldn’t stand it anymore, when he had to sneak down the hallway just to make sure everything was alright, images of you thrown over father’s knees, bare ass spanked raw materializing in his head.

Or maybe he does know. Maybe he refuses to admit it. Maybe he just pretends he doesn’t, because he wishes he didn’t.

Still, you always get off fucking easy, as far as Naoya’s concerned. He’s never witnessed his father allow any woman to talk back to him with such horrid disrespect, to whine and plead and roll their eyes without a backhand so heavy, so hard it knocks them to the floor.

And yet, you receive a few measly spanks to your ass—a punishment that’s more embarrassing than anything else, terribly unfit for a grown woman—and get sent to your room for the rest of the night.

“She truly is Daddy’s Little Girl,” his mother had snarled after one particular punishment, features curled up in an unattractive sneer.

Naoya can’t help but begrudgingly agree.

✰ ✰ ✰

“Oh, lighten up,” one of his brothers nudges his foot with the toe of his slipper before collapsing next to him one abnormally cold evening in early October, interrupting Naoya’s nightly routine of glaring at you, cuddled up into Daddy’s side as you watch a show. “Just because you aren’t Daddy’s favourite anymore doesn’t mean you have to skulk around looking like you just ate a whole lemon,”

“What’re you on about,” Naoya seethes through clenched teeth, glancing at his older brother through the corner of his eye.

“You know,” he responds airily with a knowing smirk, nodding his head in your direction. “She’s taken your place, huh? Or is that not what’s upsetting you?”

And that hurts—it hurts, because he used to be Daddy’s favourite, Daddy’s youngest—the baby—Daddy’s spoiled brat. He’s used to being the center of Daddy’s attention, used to being the object of his praise, used to being the golden child, the prized child, the destined son nurtured and conditioned to take over the Family Business once his father retires.

Light eyes roll back in his skull as he tsks in disapproval, shaking his head and clearing his throat to rid the tremble from his voice. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,”

“Mm, I think I know more than you believe,”

The words are spoken in a murmur, only loud enough for the two of them to hear, but Naoya’s gaze snaps back to his face immediately as he calls your name, gently pulling you from the hushed conversation you were having with Daddy, full of giggles and murmurs, nonchalantly asking, “When’s your birthday?”

No.

No, Naoya wants to hiss at his pathetic excuse of a brother, large hands curling into quivering fists, nails biting into the fleshy heels of his palms as teeth grit, forcefully swallowing back down the two letter refutation.

No-no-no-no-no, he doesn’t want to hear this. He doesn’t want to know, doesn’t need to know, throat constricting as you inhale to speak, chirpily responding.

Blood turns to thick ice in his veins when he hears your birth date, when he realizes those raised little bumps he was born with on the inside of his wrist match your zodiac sign. Heavy dread, black and poisonous and akin to thick disappointment, sinks in his chest, latching onto the floor of his stomach and spreading quickly, sticky as it engulfs all of his surrounding organs, coating them in acidic pollution.

He’s up and out of his seat before his brother has even finished asking you his next question, stumbling out of the room on unsteady legs, nearly tripping over his own ankles in his haste to get away from you, to escape.

He doesn’t want to know what the bumps on your inner wrist are, tells himself that it doesn’t matter, that he doesn’t care, that this is all bullshit anyway, century-old myths created by the dreamers and the sentimentalists. It isn’t like the prospect hadn’t already crossed his mind—drifting through a sick orgasmic haze after fucking his fist to the memory of you—the potential that you may be his ‘soulmate’, a cruel trick played on him by the gods. Except…

Except it isn’t real. It isn’t real. There’s no science backing it up, nothing to concretely prove that the zodiac constellation embedded in his skin has anything to do with his ‘soulmate’—or anyone else’s. It’s just a legend, an old wives tale made up for the romantics and nothing else.

In his alacrity to resist it, he turns fucking ruthless in his verbal assault, but nothing seems to deter you; it barely seems to phase you at all, carrying on your tasks or your cute little babbling as if he hadn’t just insulted you.

Because you’re incessant, almost desperate to gain his approval, continuing to treat him like a god—doing more for him than you do for anyone else, including Daddy—regardless of how many how many expletives and offensive sentiments he hurls at you.

And eventually, he goes a little too far.

✰ ✰ ✰

The night before Halloween is dark and dreary, thick grey clouds stuffed with rain that continuously drizzles over the estate, brutal winds whipping the tiny droplets against the windowpanes, tiny specks and splatters of water decorating the glass, rearranging themselves every time the wind throws another smattering of rain towards them.

You skip into the living room, full of bashful giggles and muted squeals as Daddy fawns over you, awestricken as he murmurs about how beautiful his princess looks.

His princess.

Naoya’s not quite sure what you’re supposed to be, nor does he care, tearing his gaze from your scantily clad form before his brain can even register what the costume is, before blood can rush to his cock, before he can witness the shy little smile on your lips and the pretty way your eyes glitter as you twirl for Daddy.

No, the only thing Naoya cares about is the fact that the dress of your costume is way too short to be considered decent, fluffy petticoat barely covering your ass, fanning out to reveal the edges of dainty pink lace clinging to the supple flesh of your ass as you twist and turn.

And he hasn’t a clue what you’re chattering on about, isn’t listening, can’t hear anything over the roar of blood rushing in his ears as he stands from his seat and stomps towards you, strong, callous voice cutting off your excited babbling as he glowers expectantly at his father.

“Jesus Christ, Daddy, you aren’t actually going to let her go out in that, are you?”

“Why?” you ask before your father can respond, genuinely confused, head tilting cutely. “What’s wrong with it?”

“What’s wrong with it?” he repeats incredulously, thick eyelashes fluttering as he blinks several times, eyebrows raising and huffing out a sarcastic laugh in disbelief. “Are you joking?”

Your head shakes slowly, a frown beginning to materialize on your lips as your eyebrows knit.

“It’s entirely inappropriate,” he scoffs, enunciating his words slowly, like you’re stupid.

You stare up at him cautiously, bottom lip jutting out in a pout so deep your chin puckers. “But nii-san, it’s Halloween—”

“Oh? And what are you going as, a slut?”

A little strangled gasp of Naoya-nii! hitches in your throat, your entire expression crumpling at his disapproval, hands running over the costume in an almost protective manner, smoothing it down.

“N-No, I’m—”

“I don’t care,” he hisses. “There’s no way you’re leaving the house in that—go change. Now.”

The direct order surprises you, shock saturating your features before resentment begins to bleed through. Blinking hard, you force the tears from your eyes, expression hardening and shoulders rolling back, spine straightening.

“No.”

“What did you just say to me?”

“Is there something wrong with your hearing? I said no,”

That sharp, self-assured smile drops from his face in an instant, face screwing up from such defiance, such disrespect. “Excuse me?”

Shivers skitter up your spine, tiny spikes of ice chasing them, but you refuse to back down, even though your voice is beginning to quiver.

“Y-You’re not Daddy! You don’t get to tell me what to do, I don’t care if you’re older!”

And just like that, the sharp smile is back, stretched abnormally wide across his lips—like it had been cut, carved, into his handsome face—uncanny and inhuman as his eyes glint with malevolence, words flowing from his mouth slowly, calmly, almost serenely, as he prowls towards you.

“You’re right—I’m not Daddy, because I would never let a woman speak to me the way he allows you to speak to him, you ungrateful little brat,”

A large hand, decorated with chunky, glittering gold rings, cuts through the air, striking you across the cheek with such force you stumble backwards from the impact, nearly tripping over your own feet only to have Daddy wrap a strong arm around your waist, catching you with ease and pulling you to his chest.

And it’s intense, so intense it kicks the breath right from your chest, barreling up your throat where you choke on it as it tangles with a sharp yelp. Hands fly to clutch your cheek immediately, throbbing thorns of pain shooting through the side of your face.

Daddy’s yelling, but it all sounds muddled, muffled, like your deep underwater and he’s shouting from above the surface, despite the fact that you’re clinging to him, pressed up so tightly against his side you can feel the vibrations of his voice in his body.

Naoya-nii isn’t saying anything, hand dropped limply to his side, pretty gold adorning his fingers coated in gleaming crimson. He isn’t even looking at Daddy—no, his gorgeous light eyes are focused on you, on the sticky scarlet leaking from the wounds his rings left when they collided with your cheek and the glistening tears shielding your eyes.

And for once, he has nothing to say, no sarcastic remarks or cynical little comments, voice evaporating in his throat as his chest burns, scathed with regret, remorse, repentance—all unwarranted, undeserved, unnecessary. Because—because you earned that slap for being so fucking disrespectful; you needed it, were practically begging him to put you back in your place, back where you belong: below him, behind him, and never beside him.

Because no matter how cute you are, how sweet and precious and good, none of it permits you to speak to him in such a manner, to act as though you’re equal.

So why has this inexplicable agony taken root at his core? Why does he feel like his heart is mutilating itself, tearing itself to shreds, with each of your pitiful little whimpers? Why does he feel the overwhelming urge to make it better, to make your pretty tears and precious sobs stop?

Inevitable anger surges through his veins—furious at you, for eliciting such bothersome emotions; furious at himself, for being so weak, so vulnerable, and allowing such pathetic sentiments to take over, to rob him of his control, of his autonomy.

And despite everything, all of his rage and loathing and confusion, his hand buzzes from it, from the sensation of touching your soft skin for the very first time, even in such a brutal and malicious manner, and instantly, he craves more.

✰ ✰ ✰

You don’t speak to him after that. You stop making his favourite meals, stop asking him about his day and then uninvitedly reciting your own in that cute, excited chatter that is so distinctly you, stop doing all of those extra little chores—washing his clothes and changing his sheets and scrubbing his bathroom until it sparkles. You put an end to everything.

And he fucking misses it.

He shouldn’t, but he does.

It’s painful to admit, but he can’t ignore it, notices your lack of presence almost immediately, that gaping void spreading, growing, as it roars in protest, claiming more and more of his body every day, like some sort of inky disease that only your presence seems to calm, to cure.

It fucking sucks. It fucking sucks, because he can’t stop it, regardless of how hard he tries, an impossible ailment he can’t void himself of. It fucking sucks, because you’re eating him up, consuming his very soul, devouring him from the inside out without even sparing him a goddamn glance—and you don’t even know it.

And it’s getting exhausting, putting up this front all the time, fighting against the intense feelings you swirl around in his chest, in his cock, without a hope, without a chance in hell. Fighting for nothing, because he knows he’ll never win. Fighting for nothing, because he isn’t sure he wants to anymore.

They’re unruly, voracious and rabid, tearing up his chest, his lungs and his heart and his throat, with sharp piercing claws and becoming increasingly difficult to overlook, to disregard.

Still, he’s too stubborn, too proud, to give in, to give up, even though the thing living inside him grows stronger every day, even though he knows that one day, it will overpower him.

✰ ✰ ✰

It’s windy—the estate quiet as the wind howls softly through the dense pines outside and ruffles them—the night it finally does, the night it takes over entirely, bursting through the barriers he keeps rebuilding and repairing around his soul and his sanity, writhing inside him when he hears soft sobs, muffled by the wood of your bedroom door, just past three in the morning.

It possesses him, like some sort of eternal spirit sinking deep into his bones and sewing itself into his soul, revoking his control over his body as a sudden, intense need to comfort you, to find out what’s wrong and make it all better, courses through his veins, entirely unaware of his actions as he pushes past the door and into your room.

“Naoya-nii?”

It’s the first time you’ve spoken to him, the first time you’ve even looked at him, since he struck you.

And he aches to apologize, I’m sorry’s and I shouldn’t have done that’s blistering his throat as they linger, just behind the back of his tongue.

But his pride outweighs them by a hair, despite how much his chest stings with the need to make things better, to make things right, for a reason unbeknownst to him. It’s just a sense—vague in meaning but strong in feeling—that longs for reconciliation, that’s desperate to rid your pretty face from the permanent scowl his presence etches into it.

That’s the first time he creeps into your room, the first time he loses his autonomy to the thing inside of him as he takes you into his arms and comforts you, the first time he allows you to cum from grinding on his cock.

Except it becomes a habit, an addiction, a nightly routine, cravings becoming stronger and stronger with each passing night. And for a brief span of time, it’s enough to appease the creature, the short nights spent with you in his arms, body trembling against his as you whimper out his name and his honorific, tangling on your tongue.

Because it feels right. It feels righter than anything in his life ever has, uncharacteristically gentle hands guiding your hips as they rock against his, soaked cunt gliding over the flannel of his pajama pants with ease as you huff out the prettiest little mewls into his neck.

It feels right only when he’s here with you, alone with you. Suddenly, it’s like everything makes sense again, like the world is in colour again, like the planet balanced again. He can no longer deny this feeling, this ache deep at the very pit of his soul that throbs and stings and burns mercilessly without your presence. You’re the only thing that can heal it, that can quell it, that can complete it.

So he gives in. It’s just for the nights, he promises himself, vows never to allow such sentiments to trickle into the daytime, to save it for when the sun sinks beneath the horizon, pledges never to permit these nightly escapades to advance from anything more than dry humping, nothing further than your cum on his fingers and your thighs stained with sticky cream.

But eventually, that isn’t enough, either.

And he was stupid to think it would be.

✰ ✰ ✰

The harsh slap of Testoni loafers against stone echoes out among the immaculately landscaped front yard, bouncing off thin tree trunks and being absorbed by tall, thick shrubs. Silver light, cast by the haloed moon hanging high in the clear navy sky, illuminates the garden, the foliage faded and washed out, painted by the moonbeams. Somewhere in the distance, the gentle trickle of water mingles with Naoya’s harsh breaths, cellphone gripped tightly in one fist as he paces back and forth like a rabid dog, small rocks popping under his feet.

It’s late. It’s too late—you were supposed to be home hours ago. Naoya’s tried calling—seven times, now, his phone buzzing in his palm to warn him of a low battery—but you haven’t picked up once. But that isn’t new, nor is it unusual; you rarely answer his calls while you’re out with Satoru.

So, really, this shouldn’t be cause for alarm. It shouldn’t.

Except he knows the man you’re out with, knows what you’re doing with him, and he can’t get it out of his fucking head, assaulted with fabricated images of you trapped under a large man with ivory hair and crystal eyes, back arching in ecstasy, his name leaving your lips in the prettiest gasps, in the way Naoya’s name leaves your lips during his habitual sneaking into your room in the middle of the night.

He’s terrified it’s going to drive him insane, eyes pricking and throat burning as his nose twitches with the threat of tears, eyelids shut so tightly his whole face scrunches up, tense and crumpled every time a new wave of contrived memories of you cumming all over that asshole’s cock crash over his mind.

Copper stings his tongue as sharp front teeth nibble at the raw cuticles surrounding his nailbed, face puckering at the taste and ripping his thumb, glistening with saliva, from his mouth.

This is pathetic, goddamn it! It shouldn’t even matter who you’re with and what you’re doing with them, shouldn’t be any of Naoya’s concern at all whether you’re safe or not, shouldn’t fucking hurt nearly as much as it does, a heavy ache that weighs on his chest more and more and more as each second ticks by, ribs caving in and splintering under the force, snapping into sharp spikes that puncture his lungs and make it painful to breathe.

“This is such a waste of fucking time, I don’t even—” he’s muttering to himself when you step out of Satoru’s car, his internal monologue beginning to leak from his head out his lips, your presence immediately cutting it off as his head snaps up, light eyes paler than normal, practically glowing in the moonlight.

A startled little whimper pries its way past your lips when you see him, stomping towards you with a heaving chest and a growl ripping from his throat.

“Where the fuck have you been?” he’s seething as a large hand seizes your arm, wrapping around your bicep and yanking, bring your face closer to his. “Huh? Do you know what fucking time it is?”

Frenzied eyes search your face, wild and erratic in their movements, sharply zeroing in on the tiny galaxies of swirling lilac and cobalt peppered with little pinpricks of scarlet that’ve been sucked into the flesh of your neck.

He chokes on something—a gasp or a snarl or a sob, maybe a mixture of all three, you aren’t entirely sure—pearly teeth gnashing together. “You’re a little slut,” he spits the word out like venom, harsh and biting as it whizzes past your cheek, slicing into your skin.

“That’s it, that’s all—that’s all you’re fucking good for,” his grip tightens with each word that flows from his mouth. “At least you’ve picked a rich man to sell your pussy to, at least you aren’t a total idiot, just like your mother, huh?”

“What is your problem?” little hands claw at the fingers latched around you, finally breaking free from him, ripping your limb from his grasp with such vigor you nearly fall on your ass, teetering backwards on unsteady feet. “You know, just because you can’t own up and face your feelings, doesn’t mean you get to take it out on me. This,” you gesture between the two of you. “Isn’t my fault.”

“This?” he spits, face screwing up in scorn. “There is no this,”

“Oh my God,” eyes rolling, you shake your head, exhaling a dubious laugh. “Shut up. There’s no one here—you can be real with me, I’m not gonna tell anyone,” you snark, arms crossing over your chest as you level your gaze with him.

He glares back at you, sharp jaw rhythmically clenching and unclenching with the grinding of his molars, large hands balled into tight, trembling fists on either side of his body.

“You know there’s something here, between us, within us, even if you refuse to admit it,” you continue after a beat of silence, voice softening.

His whole form is beginning to quiver and he jerkily shakes his head, exhaling harshly. You think he may be crying, but in the faint moonlight it’s hard to be sure.

Holding your wrist up, you swallow thickly, glancing at those little bumps embedded in your skin, watching the tiny shadows that form when your arm twists. “I have your sign,” your voice is quiet as you look back at him, flashing the inside of your wrist to him. “And I know you have mine,”

A cynical smirk spreads across his lips, but it looks more like a grimace, like a flimsy mask desperately attempting to cover something else, tongue tutting in disbelief. “Yeah, and there’s millions of people in this world with any given sign. It’s all bullshit—it could be anyone,”

“It could be anyone,” you agree, nodding. “But it isn’t.”

“You don’t know that!”

“I do! I know you feel it too! Christ, why are you so—so adamant on denying this, even when it’s just the two of us? What’s the point?”

“You’re my fucking sister, that’s the point. This is inappropriate, it’s wrong,”

“If it’s so wrong, then why do you sneak into my bedroom every night? Why do you let me cum on your fingers? Why do you fuck my thighs?” your footsteps speed up, jogging a little to catch up to him. “Huh? Huh? No answer? Or do you know the answer, and you’re too afraid to say it?”

“I don’t know!” he explodes, whirling around on you and trapping you against the brick, palms laid flat against the wall. “Alright? I don’t fucking know why I do those things. They make me feel sick afterwards, but I…”

But I can’t stop.

But I need you.

But I love you.

Chests heave with harsh exhales that mingle and echo in the garden, your eyes studying his face intently, in a way that makes him feel naked, exposed, makes him want to turn and hide from you.

“I’m not asking—” you start, words catching in your throat and blinking hard to clear rapidly welling tears from your eyes. Your voice is softer, more fragile and weak, when you speak again. “You don’t have to marry me, for Christ’s sake. I just—I just want you to—I need to know you feel it too,”

“Why?” he hisses, acidic envy bubbling in his chest, beginning to erode his resolve, walls crumbling to rubble. “What is there to know? You already have him,”

“But I’d rather have you,” the words materialize on your tongue before you even know what you’re saying, earnest eyes boring into his.

“God, don’t—” eyelids shut tightly, lithe fingers tangling in blonde hair and tugging. “Don’t say shit like that,”

He can feel them, those three little words thrashing in his chest, desperate to claw up his throat and spill from his lips, but he grits his teeth and swallows them back down, letters lodging and forming a painful lump.

And you notice. You notice, because you’ve studied him extensively, have learned to read him—his mannerisms, expressions, behaviours—well.

And you’ve just found his weakness.

“Do you want to know what I think of when he fucks me?” you ask, eyes searching his face in an almost frenzied manner, breath accelerating as you quickly push the words from your lips, worried if you don’t speak fast enough, if you don’t vocalize these sentiments now, you’ll lose him again. “It’s you. It’s always you. I’ve tried—I’ve tried to think of someone else, of anyone else, but you just…you just won’t leave my brain! It’s like a—a sickness, or something. Like a chronic illness, and it’s only getting worse,”

A strangled growl rattles in his chest as he tears himself away from you, fists violently rubbing at his eyes.

He knows. He knows, because he’s tried the same thing, attempted to desperately forget you, to disintegrate the weird feelings you endlessly evoke in his chest by losing himself in women night after night, often multiple women at once, drowning himself in their moans and gasps and soft bodies to no avail.

“There’s no cure,”

He doesn’t even mean to say it, words slipping from his lips unconsciously as he gets tangled in his thoughts, flipping through the countless memories of faceless women of all shapes and sizes, faceless woman that somehow always mange to morph into you.

“No,” you respond, shaking your head. “There isn’t. But at least I’m trying!”

He spins around, gleaming eyes flashing, brimming with bewilderment, features falling in surprise for just a moment before they harden again, varnished in offense.

“What’re you talking about,” he seethes, eyebrows furrowing deeply as his eyes narrow into sharp slits, scrutinizing, analyzing, dissecting.

“I-I’d rather have you, yes, and he’ll—no one will ever compare, will ever even come close to how much I—” you cut yourself off, swallowing the thought, then clearing your throat and beginning again. “At least I’m trying to find someone, though. At least I’m trying to find just a shred of what I feel for you, instead of sitting around feeling sorry for myself, alone and miserable,”

“Oh,” he laughs humorlessly, a callous little sound that viciously tears from his chest, that scrapes his throat and comes out strangled, full of incredulity. “You don’t think I’ve tried? You don’t think I’ve tried endlessly to forget you? To cleanse you from my mind? To move the fuck on from something that had never begun in the first place? You’ve imprinted yourself in the tissues of my fucking brain in a matter of months. It’s tiring. It’s hopeless,”

His voice breaks on the last word, some of the merciless heat fading from his features as he glares at you, eyes almost pleading for you to understand.

Because you’re the only one that can.

You’ve been in this together the entire time, right from the start, from the moment you walked through that front door.

And he’s been resisting it, fighting against it, against himself, all while the current only becomes stronger, only continues to grow in strength and size, and he’s motherfucking exhausted at this point, sick of battling some invisible force he was convinced didn’t even exist, sick of waging a war he will forever be destined to lose.

You’ve broken that wall, shattered it to dust, destroyed all of his weapons of defense and robbed him of his sovereignty, and now it’s all pouring form his mouth, an endless, uncontrollable stream of confessions, of thoughts and desires, of agony and misery.

“But it doesn’t even fucking matter, because I love you. I love you and I fucking hate you for it. And I’ve been trying, alright? I’ve tried not to, I’ve tried every single trick in the fucking book to stop it, to get over you, to forget you—and none of it has ever fucking worked, not even for a second. I don’t want you; I—I don’t want to be, but I’m in love with you,”

It looks as though your breathing has ceased, chest halting in its rapid movements, body gone still, static, stagnant. Your silence is deafening, has his ears ringing and his heart pounding, thrashing against his ribs as it aimlessly attempts to crawl through the cage, to present itself to you, bloody and beating and all yours. It’s all yours—take it, kill it, end its suffering.

“And there’s nothing—”

Surging forward, your lips crash into his, body following as it smacks against his own, effectively cutting him off. Naoya freezes, eyes wide and breathing stopped, entire body turned to ice, rigid and tense, but you are not deterred, arms winding around his neck as fingers thread through the gold and ink at the base of his skull.

“I love you, too,” you mumble into the kiss, refusing to break contact for even a second, lips brushing his as you speak. “I love you so much,”

The confession—an admission he already knew, deep down in his very bones, an admission he can no longer ignore, now that you’ve said it—snaps him out of his trance, and something switches, something breaks. Because then he’s kissing you back, tongue forcing its way through your lips to assault your own as calloused hands find purchase on your hips, squeezing your flesh hard enough that you yelp.

He chuckles against your lips, and then he’s pushing forward, forcing you to walk backwards, too fast for you to keep up, his legs longer than yours, body bigger than yours, stronger than yours.

Even with all of his shoving, you still aren’t moving quick enough for him, clumsy and stumbling over your own feet, whimpering hushed apologies into his mouth, a response to the growls that rumble in his chest each time you trip, your pitiful little sorry!’s consistently being cut off by his tongue.

Large hands hoist you up without breaking the kiss, mouth still attempting to devour you whole, to suck up your very soul, and your legs automatically wrap around his waist, latching onto him.

Either of your bedrooms are too far, and he can’t take it, he can’t wait—not with the way your fingers are tangling in his shirt and tugging, the way needy little whines are hitching in your throat, the way you’re squirming in his grasp, trying to grind against his half-hard cock.

You’re fucking desperate, but so is he, thigh whacking off the edge of the wooden coffee table as he blindly staggers towards the kitchen, tongue hungrily dragging against yours while he does so.

The cold marble stings your skin as he deposits you onto the nearest countertop, hips wedged between your thighs keeping them spread.

Little fingers immediately go for his belt, nonsensical whimpers sounding in the back of your throat as you fumble and struggle, hooking your fingers through his beltloops and pulling.

“Eager girl,” he chastises, a little breathless as nimble fingers find the soaked lace at the apex of your thighs, pushing it to the side. “Nii-san has to prep you first,”

“No,” you whine, pitched high and much too loud. “M’wet enough. Want you, want you now, nii-san, please, just give it to me, been waiting so long, please,”

The words are slurred together as they tumble from your lips, infused with a potent lust that casts a dense haze over your mind, rendering you capable of only focusing on what you need.

Light eyes dart up, holding yours through fanned lashes for a moment, as if they’re searching for any hesitancy, before his lips form the most genuine smile he’s ever given you.

“Yeah?” he huffs out, finally breaking your stare to watch his hands undo his belt, continuing to speak as he shoves his jeans down his thighs and frees his cock. “You think you can take it?”

“Yes, nii-san,” you nearly mewl, gazing at him with blown, glazed eyes and a cute pout. “Please, give it to me, I-I want it, please,”

His gaze finally flicks up, that sincere smile stretched wider across his face, a playful glint in his eye, voice void of any of its usual derision. “You want what? Hmm, baby? Come on, nii-san wants to hear you say it,”

A low whimper leaves your throat and you shift on the countertop, as if trying to wiggle closer to him. “Your cock, nii-san, want your cock, please-please-please, gimme-gimme-gimme,”

It sounds as though you’re close to tears, voice cracking and thick with desire, Naoya’s cock twitching in his palm in response to the sound, and, God, he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to that, absolutely adores it when you beg, thinks you sound so pretty when you’re pleading for him.

“You’re a greedy little girl, you know that?” he pants while he pushes in, a muffled yelp prying past your lips. “Shh, hush now, nii-san will give you what you need,”

The stretch is incredible, cute little cunt throbbing around his thick cock as it struggles to adjust to the sudden intrusion, feeling as though he’s going to tear you into two, leaving stinging micro-fissures in the delicate flesh.

Yet despite the burn, the ache that settles deep in your core, that feels like he’s splitting you in half, a satisfied moan leaves your lips, head falling forward and resting against his broad shoulder, fingers curling in the cotton that adorns his torso and pulling him closer, closer, closer.

Because, finally, you feel whole, more whole than you’ve ever felt in your entire life, satisfying an inexplicable desire buried at the crux of your very soul, something you didn’t even realize you were missing until you finally had it.

“S’not enough,” you mumble into him, nuzzling your face against him like a cat. “Need more, nii-san, need more,”

“You really are a selfish little fucking brat,” he grunts as fingers flex on your hips, tips digging into the pliant flesh and gripping, singeing his name into your skin in rapidly blossoming indigo and ultramarine.

“Nii-san was going to try and be nice,” the words, strained and husky, spill from plush lips as his hips begin to thrust, slow and hard, winding back as they draw the force to ram forward, slamming a cry from your chest as his cockhead pounds against your cervix. “But you’re too impatient for that, aren’t you?”

It’s a fucking lie; his self-control had been hanging by a thread, barely restraining the primal need to wildly buck into you, but you just snapped it, just tore the last of his treasured discipline to fucking shreds with nothing more than a few words.

The pace is ruthless, your head bouncing off the cabinets with each powerful snap of his hips, an endless stream of cries pouring from your lips, one hand curling around the edge of the counter as the other grips his shoulder, nails burying themselves in the hard muscle through the thin cotton of his shirt. Sharp bones carve a spot just for him, made for him, between your legs, into the tender flesh of your inner thighs.

“You’re mine, you hear me?” he pants out, eyes so bright they’re practically glowing. “Mine.”

“Yours!” you gasp out, head nodding in sloppy little movements against his shoulder as you fall forward, wrapping your arms around him and squeezing. “Yours, yours, yours,”

Everything feels hazy, almost dreamlike in a sense, vision blurring over with a thick shield of tears that you can’t quite explain, his name and the honorific becoming muddled on your tongue, fusing into one as you wail it out, clinging to him in a way that’s almost possessive.

“Nii-san’s here,” he promises you, voice hoarse. “Nii-san’s yours, too,”

“Mine,” the arms thrown around his neck tighten, fingers tangling in soft gold and wrinkled cotton. “Mine, mine, mine—”

“Mine,” he echoes, hips never faltering even as you wind your body around his, large hands keeping your hips still as he fucks into you. “And only mine—”

“Forever and ever and ever—”

“You belong to me, were made for me, put on this earth for me,”

Words of confirmation are escaping from your lips, you’re absolutely sure of it, can feel them vibrating up your throat as you speak them—but it’s so much, too much, all of the feelings swirling around in your chest, sending spikes of pleasure and thorns of pain shooting through your veins as they clash together. A sudden wooziness settles over you, brain fogging over as he becomes the only thing you can think of, the only thing you want to think of, nonsensical babbling still slipping from between parted lips in hitched puffs of breath.

“So full,” you nearly sob, one of Naoya’s hands tangling in the hair at the back of your skull and yanking, pulling your face from the sanctuary of his neck and exposing your expressions to his scrutinizing eyes, devouring the beautiful tears streaking your cheeks, the contorting of your features as pleasure washes over them. “M’so full, nii-san, it’s so much,”

“Yeah? Better than he could ever stuff you?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” you’re wailing out, affirmations falling from your lips with each brutal piston of his hips. “More, need more,”

Because it’s like an addiction, an innate need for more of him, for all of him, ravenous and unquenchable, that’s always existed within you, that his cock stretching you out, filling you up, has only just awakened.

His aura is positively intoxicating, overwhelming your senses and becoming all you can see, all you can hear, all you can smell, taste, touch. His taste lingers on your tongue, faint notes of minty pine and sharp nicotine dancing with your tastebuds; his touch brands itself into you, bruises and bitemarks carving his name into soft skin; his scent assaults you, envelops you, overpowers everything else as it wraps you in a shackled embrace of expensive aftershave and cedar wood.

A growl tears from his chest, so rough that it vibrates throughout his entire body, and his pace quickens, cock plunging into you and an incredible speed, dragging against that one spot that has you nearly screaming, that has your eyes rolling back and your little hole fluttering around him as a blistering fire sparks to life in the pit of your belly.

You can feel it, furling in on itself with each vicious rut of his hips, each relentless bang of his cockhead against your cervix, a concentrated ball of scathing heat pulsing, quaking in your stomach as it curls tighter and tighter and tighter with each plunge forward—until it bursts, a fiery explosion that buzzes through your veins as your cunt clenches, gushing on his cock as he praises you—yeah, that’s it, make a mess on nii-san—entire body coiling from the sheer strength.

“Tell me,” he keens almost desperately, voice pulling you from the clutches of post-orgasm unconsciousness, hips stuttering for a moment before he regains his finesse. “Tell me how badly you need it,”

And you don’t need to be told what, pleads pouring from your mouth in an instant, before your brain can even comprehend what you’re saying, an instinctual reaction to his command. “Need your cum, nii-san, need you to full me up, fill my tummy with it, stuff me full of it, need it so bad, nii-san, please gimme your cum, please, please,”

The words are all jumbled together, thick with tears and wet with saliva and imbued with delirium, quivering and breaking as your body trembles from overstimulation.

“Fuck,” he chokes on the curse, hips stilling, pressed flush against your ass as his cock throbs, filling you with spurt after spurt of thick cum, a broken whine catching in his throat as endless words spill from yours, peppered with the sweetest moans—yes, nii-san, thank you, nii-san, fill me up, fill my body with it, my brain with it, I need it, I need it.

And he does, pumps you full of so much that it begins leaking out from your abused little hole—still stuffed with him—and down his cock.

And it’s then—after he has filled you up, with your precious little cunt still pulsing around his length, whimpering out his honorific as you hold onto him, voice raw and wrecked and cracking with residual tears—then that Naoya’s sure you were meant for him, made for him, perfectly tailored to him; he knows you were, his very own gift from the gods.

#zenin naoya x reader #zenin naoya smut #jjk smut #zenin naoya #zen'in naoya #tw:incest #tw death #tw toxic relationship #tw abuse #tw physical abuse #WAAAAAAH FINALLY HE IS DONE HEHEHE YAAAAY #whew okay

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triplexdoublex · 3 years

Text

Jets

Pairings: Colson x Reader

Warnings/tags: mild daddy kink, overstimulation, unholy uses of jacuzzi jets

A/N: This is an older fic I reworked to be an MGK fic. Also this is an AU Colson’s not famous.

“Mmmmmmm” You groan, stirred awake by a warm pleasurable sensation taking over your core. Your eyelashes flutter open and a tangled mess of bleach-blonde hair comes into focus between your thighs. “Well, good mmm-morning to you t-too.” You moan out. Colson smiles against your folds as he moves his tongue in waves over your clit. “Uhhh Colson…F-fuck!” You whine gripping the sheets.

In all the years you’ve been together he’s never woken you up in such a way and you wonder what’s gotten into him, but you’re definitely not complaining. He pushes your thighs open wider tracing figure eights over your clit with his tongue, as you moan and writhe enjoying every minute of your wake up call. He slides his hands inward from your thighs to your core his fingertips prying open your lips as he begins to tongue fuck your entrance. With his hand resting on your lower abdomen he uses his thumb to work your clit in circles. “Ohhhh Fuck I’m close!” You moan bucking your hips off the mattress while grabbing a handful of his bed-head, holding his head in place just where you want it. You rake your other hand through your hair, pulling it down over your face in a fit of pleasure as you ride out your orgasm, rocking your hips against his mouth.

“Mmmmm good morning, babe.” He says crawling up from between your legs to give you a quick kiss on the lips, leaving the taste of yourself behind, which you welcome with a swipe of your tongue.

“What got into you?” You smile between trying to catch your breath.

“Well, you know you never sleep in panties, and you must have kicked the blankets off in your sleep, because when I woke up my shirt you like to wear to bed was all bunched up around your stomach and your pretty, pink pussy just looked like it was begging for it.” He says dragging his bottom lip though his teeth.

“Oh shit what time is it? You ask, grabbing your phone from the nightstand. You look at time 6:15. “Fuck I’m gonna be late.” You take the quickest shower of your life, get dressed, throw your wet hair up into a messy bun, haphazardly slap some makeup on your face, and speed to work. You make it to your waitress job with only two minutes to spare.

All day at work you’re distracted by the events of this morning, making for a rather stressful day of fucking up orders, and forgetting to check on tables; your mind clouded by the memory of Colson’s warm tongue; you can’t wait to get home and finish what he started.

**********************

Upon entering your house after work you see Colson sitting at the kitchen table on his laptop looking rather stressed; presumably buried in work related emails. You walk over to him and stroke your hand up his arm.

“Babe?” You say in a sultry tone, trying to pull him from his work to get what you want.

“Not now hun, sorry I got a lot of shit to do.” He says without even looking up from his laptop blowing you off.

“Daddy?” You try again, knowing it always drives him wild when you call him that.

“Y/N, not right now, I’m sorry. I need to take care of some things.” He says. You know he means business because he uses your name instead of the little pet names like Princess, Babygirl, or Kitten, he usually uses when you call him Daddy.

“Fine I’m gonna go take a bath and relax a little before I make dinner then.” You say making your way over to the staircase.

“That’s fine, I’m not hungry yet anyways.” Colson says, eyes glued to the laptop screen as he types away.

*************************

Upstairs in the bathroom you run the water in the large, two-person Jacuzzi tub, setting it to the perfect temp before undressing. When the water level rises over the jets you climb in and turn them on; the loud hum of the motor and the whirlpool action of the water cancelling out all other noises around you. You sink down low in the water, the jets pulsing against your neck and back releasing the tension of the day, when suddenly you become very aware of the water lightly bubbling between your thighs from the jets of the empty seat across from you. With the memories of this morning still playing through your head you get an idea. You scoot closer to the jet, putting your feet up on the edge of the tub allowing the jet stream to pulse against your clit. You moan lowly at the intense feeling. You close your eyes and tilt your head back; the ends of your hair floating on the surface of the water.

“Feel good?”

“Colson! Jesus Christ, you scared me!” You exclaim scrambling to sit up; you’re face flushed with embarrassment.

“I said, feel good?” He says biting his lip.

“Well, I much rather feel you.” You tease, swimming up to the edge of the tub. “but somebody was busy.”

“Yeah, well that somebody came up here to tell you that I decided work can wai.t I’ve been dying to get inside of you all day. You’re the reason I’m so behind.”

“Yeah, well, what are you waiting for get in here.” You smirk, sliding your hand down your stomach to your core as he watches.

“God, you’re gonna get it so good, you know that right?” Colson says as he quickly strips his clothing.

“Mmmmmm am I?” You giggle biting your lip, as Colson steps into the tub and takes a seat. You make your way over to his lap and attempt to straddle him.

“No get on your knees.”

“What?” you ask perplexed.

“You heard me, get on your knees, kneel on the seat!” He barks, shifting out of your way. You do as you're told, kneeling on the seat, the jets bubbling against your core driving your desire. “You like these jets so much, lets see how much you like them when I fuck you up against them.” He bends you over the side of the tub trailing his fingers through your folds. “God, not even this water can wash away how wet you are for me.” He breathes in your ear. “How’s those jets feeling on this pussy baby?” He says as he rubs you.

“Mmmmm so good.”

“How about now?” He says pushing against the small of your back forcing you closer to the jets.“

“Oh shit, Colson, Fuck!” You whine as the jets pulse against your clit. Colson quickly enters you from behind adding to the immense pleasure. Every thrust of his hips brings your core closer to the powerful stream. “Colson!, Fuck, I’m c-cumming already” You scream after only a few thrusts.

“I’m not done with you yet!” He growls, continuing to fuck you. You try to wiggle away from the water blasting on your sensitive clit to no avail; Colson keeping you firmly in place as he rapidly thrusts into you; water splashing all over.

“Colson, Fucking Christ…..Oh my God!” You grip the edge of the tub as your second orgasm rips through you. “

“Fuck your pussy feels so good when it clenches around me like that.” He grunts, not missing a beat, still keeping perfect rhythm as he thrusts. “Let’s see if we can make you do that again.” He picks up his speed fucking you faster and harder against the jets; causing not one but two back to back orgasms to ravage your core. You scream his name as you feel the tightening of your pussy milk his cum from him. After a few moments to catch his breath, he shuts off the jets, pulls the plug to the tub and exists. You slide down in the seat, your legs shaking, your breathing ragged. You stay there until the tub is completely empty, paralyzed by pleasure; your legs too weak to stand; the only feeling in them is your blood pumping and coursing through your veins.

“You gonna get out?” Colson chuckles coming back in the bathroom. “How you feeling?” He teases bending down into the tub his hand headed to your swollen clit.“

"Don’t touch it” You laugh smacking his hand away.

“Fine.” He stifles a laugh, extending his hand out. “Let me help you.” You grab onto Colson’s hand and he assists you out of the tub; your legs still wobbly. “You’re absolutely wrecked, let’s just order pizza tonight.”

#mgk #mgk smut #mgk x reader #mgk fanfic #machine gun kelly #machine gun kelly fanfic #machine gun kelly smut #machine gun kelly x reader #colson baker #colson x reader #colson baker smut #colson baker fanfic

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delicrieux · 3 years

Note

corpse husband... 👀 could I get a soft pastel aesthetic reader playing among us with the group and being absolutely terrible at it. maybe like she sees him kill someone and doesn’t say anything or report it and he follows her around to sorta protect her from the other imposter? at the end she asks why he didn’t kill her and he says it’d be too easy but ofc someone’s gonna make jokes and be like “no you’re just a simp” idk i think that’d be funny? you dont have to tho- no worries

⤹⋆⸙͎۪۫｡author’s note: we love pastels and corpse in this house. we love the “i’m helping cuz u cute” trope. we love the public simping. gotta stan this request

masterlist.⁀➷｡˚⸙͎۪۫⋆ ༄

There is a long list of things you’re terrible at, and Among Us is at the very top. But besides your lack of prowess at the game, it is perhaps luck you should curse, for what you have just witnessed will send you into the afterlife: Corpse’s little black astronaut murdering Rae in cold blood. You still by your keyboard; out of the corner of your eye, you see he chat going nuts. The stream just got ten times more interesting.

For a long few seconds neither of you move. You’re not exactly surprised Corpse is the Impostor, it’s just that you desperately did not want to get in his way - you’re bad enough at this game as it is, and trying outmaneuver the master at this game of chess? Impossible.

Shrugging, you glance at your camera, “I ain’t see nothing.” Before, in-game, you promptly turn on your heel and glide to the other side of the map. Corpse follows. You start sweating, “Noooo, I swear I’m not gonna snitch, please spare me, sir. I swear on my” You idly tap your cat headphones with your hand, “-only prized possession. And my plushie collection.” He’s still trailing after you, even when you hop into Navigation. Turning to the chat, you ask, “Guys, how do I telepathically convey to Corpse that I’m not going turn him in? No one tell him, though, that’s cheating.”

“girl, start manifesting” one comment reads.

“Oh, manifesting, okay. Saw that on TikTok. I also heard it’s like a big thing in LA.”

You’d imagine that if somehow you were actually transported to the cool chamber of a dying spaceship, cornered by a black figure with devil horns blocking your exit, you would probably start crying. But you’re safe in your little stream room, decorated in fairy-lights and soft colours and even softer blankets. That initial primal fear of having nowhere left to run lingers, though, and you gulp.

A meeting is called and you breathe out a heavy sigh of relief before unmuting your mic, the first to chime, “What happen--No! Rae! Who killed Rae, fess up now!”

“Well, maybe you killed Rae!” Sean exclaims, and even if you can’t see him, you instinctively know he’s pointing a finger at you.

“It wasn’t (Name).” Corpse says smoothly, “We’re together.” He backtracks quickly, laughing anxiously, “Uh--In game, I mean.”

The conversation rages on, though you’re forgotten, which is a small reprieve. Corpse is quick to frame someone else and everyone agrees to vote. Momentarily you can’t believe you’re betraying your fellow crewmates and wonder why you’re doing it exactly. To make an entertaining stream? That’s definitely part of it. Charlie is flung into lava and you know it should’ve been Corpse but you’re having a bit too much fun to care.

“nooooo!!!! they corrupted her!!!! our sweet baby is on the villain arc!!! RIP”

You hope not mentioning what you had seen transpire minutes prior will dissuade him from killing you - he still could, but he’s just standing by the door, watching your movements. You decide you will only figure it out once your back is turned to him, whilst doing your tasks. Apprehensively, you get to it and--

Nothing happens.

Once you’re finished, you run circles around him. He joins in soon. The olive branch had been accepted. You grin. Rush out of Nav and he, once again, follows after you.

The game continues like this, you doing tasks and he hoovering by your side like some little guardian devil. You almost forget that he’s the Impostor until he murders Sean right in front of you. You slap your hand over your mouth. Did Stockholm Syndrome kick in already? He self reports and his first words are, “(Name) and I found a body in Weapons.”

You aren’t sure how much your betrayal aided the Impostor victory, but you were the only survivor left between two serial-killers. Your chat spams celebration emoticons and fake-deep monologues about living in a society. While you were an unofficial Impostor, your audience single-handedly decides you were the best one.

It’s all laughter and apologies from your part to your slighted teammates, though even they have to admit it was a good game. Everyone agrees to play another round, but before it can start, you just have to know, “Hey, Corpse?”

“Yes, (Name)?”

“Why didn’t you kill me?”

“Oh,” He mutters, a small chuckle following after his words, “it would’ve been, uhh, too easy, I guess?”

“Lies.” Sean interrupts, “It’s because you’re a fucking SIMP!”

The discord call choruses “SIMP SIMP SIMP” in surprising harmony. You sit in your chair, giggling, smiling so brightly your cheeks start hurting.

“Guys, come on--” Corpse says, sounding like he’s smiling, like he’s got his face covered with his hands, like he’s embarrassed; he laughs - it’s a light, pretty sound, “I just wanted (Name) to have fun. And not be killed by Sykkuno.”

“Wait--” Sykkuno pipes up, “So you just...followed her around the map?”

“...Yeah.”

“Oh my God, you stupid simp!” Sean laughs, “(Name) was there when he killed me, I was so confused why she didn’t say anything because I figured she was the other Impostor, but turns out he just kidnapped her. Don’t worry, (Name), we don’t blame you for betraying the crew. You did what you had to do to survive.”

“It’s the her seeing Corpse kill me and pretending she’s blind for me.” Rae snickers.

“Wait a fucking minute,” Charlie says, “you mean to tell me, (Name), our little pastel princess fucking peach over there, saw Corpse slitting your throat and fucked right off, and then lied like a grade-a-politician during the meeting? Who killed Rae fess up my ass, you all are saying Corpse played us like a fucking fiddle but it was actually (Name) the whole time.” You hear a smile in his voice, and somehow feel a surge of pride, “(Name)--” He’s cut off by Sean trying to interject but quickly shushes him with a few choice words “Jesus fucking Christ, shut up, I’m trying to figure something out. (Name), did you or did you not use Corpse for protection?”

You’re giggling; you can’t control the sporadic giddiness mixed with light anxiousness, “I just...I just didn’t want to die!” You exclaim. More laughter.

“I rest my case, she’s a fucking wolf in sheep’s clothing, it’s always the nice one’s that stab you in the back for the fuck of it.”

“Guys,” Corpse says, “guys, guys, guys...Let’s play another round?”

“Yes”es are exchanged like trading cards. Before long, your screen lights up and you gape at the word IMPOSTOR written over you little astronaut standing right next to...Corpse.

You grin: if the last game was crazy, this one will be straight up insane.

hope you liked it! xx

#corpse husband #corpse #corpse husband x reader #corpse x reader #corpse husband fic #corpse husband fanfic #corpse husband x y/n #corpse husband imagine #imagine #imagines #reader insert #request #fluff

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yespolkadotkitty · 4 years

Text

Take What You Need

A special treat for the lovely @keeper0fthestars - a flimsy excuse to get railed into next week by Francisco Morales.

Warnings: SMUT. Porn with a flimsy nod to plot. Word count: 2300

Thanking @alwaysbethewest and @songsformonkeys for the beta!!

“All right! You heard the man, wheels up in thirty!” Redfly shouted across the small airfield. “Catch some sleep, eat, do whatever, but I want us all in that helo, in thirty.”

“Copy that,” Pope shouted back, heading off towards the thick bushes surrounding the hangar and aircraft. Ironhead followed, probably to try and talk some sense into him. Ironhead had always been the most sensible of you all.

In fact, it was William who had spoken up for you when Pope suggested you come along.

“She’s good with a rifle,” Ironhead said calmly. “And her Spanish is decent. Way better’n mine and Benny’s, anyways.”

Redfly - the infuriatingly traditional conservative middle-class American man - had ummed and aahed, and you knew it was because you had a vagina.

But here you were, and you’d taken out two of Lorea’s guys from the roof with your rifle, so Redfly could suck your metaphorical dick.

The man in question loped back to the other side of the airfield, towards Pope’s informant, and started to talk to her about something.

“This is a clusterfuck of epic proportions.”

You turned at that voice. A little raspy, a little husky-edged, it sent a shiver up your spine. Always had, and probably always would.

Francisco Morales shook his head when you turned to look at him. His ballcap - dirty, soft - was pulled down low over his head. Hair the colour of milk chocolate curled out from underneath it. He met your gaze, and his own hazelnut eyes were so, so tired.

“It could’ve gone better,” you agreed, letting your eyes trail down his long, lean frame - a little soft in the middle, but you’d always liked his tummy.

Francisco - Catfish to you all, because during special ops training, he’d caught one almost the size of himself - was an enigma of a man. Soft, sometimes. Hard, sometimes.

You’d known him five years now, and during that time you’d seen him pull the trigger a foot from a man’s head without wincing, and you’d seen him comfort a three year old girl left homeless in a war zone, his voice soft, his touch gentle. The yin and yang of him fit, somehow.

Catfish scoffed. “Not sure how it could’ve gone any fucking worse.” He ripped off his cap, and your eyes were drawn to a deep cut on his cheek.

“What’s this?” You automatically reached up to touch his face. His tanned skin was rough under your fingers as you traced the edges of the healing wound. “It might scar.”

Francisco grunted. “Like that’s a concern right now.”

You grinned, dropped your hand. “It’ll be sexy. The scar, I mean.”

“You think?” He laughed without humour, wrung his cap in his hand, and you saw how drawn his starkly handsome face was, the patchy scruff around his jawline grey in places. God, had you thought about kissing that almost-beard, stroking your fingers over his bristly chin. “I wish being sexy was what worried me most. I’m fuckin’ losing my shit here. The scales are off the charts, the helo will never make it to the ocean-” he swore a stream in Spanish, and stuffed his hat back on. The frustration steamed off him in waves.

“Fish.” You braced your hands on his shoulders, looked up into his face, twisted with anger and fear. “We’ll be okay. We’ve had worse than this.”

“Yeah, but we’ve never had worse with you,” he bit off, shrugging off your touch and pacing away, shoving his cap back on, his hair curling at the edges. “Jesus fucking Christ, if anything happens to you, I’ll-”

“Fish!” You shout to be heard over the noise of the aircraft prep, the wind, the sound of Redfly and Pope’s informant arguing. “Nothing will happen to me. You saw me take out Lorea’s guys. And I saved your ass on that mission in Istanbul.”

Francisco shifted, adopting that hands-on-hips stance he always did when he was thinking. “I know.”

“Then what? I’m not a porcelain doll, Francisco.”

And you saw it. His eyes went hot when you used his full name. Hot and sort of.. Dark. Like he wanted to drag you into that hangar and bend you against the corrugated metal wall and rail you into next week.

And boy, you’d let him.

“What?” you challenged. He needed this release. Whether it was shouting at you or whether you wrestled until the fight had gone out of him, he could not fly that helo with your lives and that money at stake in such a state.

He muttered something in Spanish. Your command of the language was very good but his voice was pitched too low for you to make out the syllables.

“Oh, you wanna go?” You lifted your fists in a mock fighting stance. “You ever hit a girl, Morales?”

“There’s always a first time,” he gritted out humourlessly.

You danced around, goading him. “Maybe you’re afraid I’d kick your ass.”

Fish scoffed, and you could see the tension in his shoulders, in the line of his back. He was a loaded powder keg, seconds from a bloody explosion from the heat, the stress, the shooting. “Stop it.”

“Make me.”

You saw the moment his eyes changed - went dark again, and you turned, running for the hangar.

You heard him bark out a laugh as he pursued you, his long legs eating up the terrain. You ran flat out, reaching the hangar in under a minute, Fish hot on your heels. The minute he barrelled through the door you slammed it behind him.

“What the fuck?” he asked, confusion parading over his face - somehow even more alluring when he was dirty, tired, stressed.

You yanked him close and kissed him. It was the first time, and all the times you’d thought about kissing him, an inaurgural kiss, it was never like this. It was in your shitty home town, under some trees, or under the bleachers of the old high school, or by moonlight at the drive-in.

It took a second, and then Francisco was kissing you back, his lips fierce, hard, the kiss almost painful in its intensity. He tasted of terrible coffee and the beef jerky you’d all forced down, and you licked into his mouth, tangling your tongue with his, and the flavour of his little groan was divine.

“We don’t have long,” he whispered harshly. “What - what do you want?”

Your breath was coming in pants. He smelled of clean sweat, the outdoors, and the spring rain, and you were wetter than you’d ever been. This close to Catfish, you couldn’t cope with the well of desire, too long ignored. “You can’t fly us like this, Fish. In this state.”

His hands clenched on your hips. “What?”

“Relieve the pressure.” You slid a hand down his body, cupped him, felt his erection like steel in velvet. Your blood fired. “For us both.”

“Shit.” Francisco leaned down, rested his forehead against yours. “I’ve fucking dreamed of this. But not… not like this, like you’re a cheap fuck. You’re not. You’re… everything.”

The words shook you, and you pressed your lips to his, drinking him in, loving him, like you’d loved him nearly five years, and always been afraid to rock the boat.

Well, now the boat had run aground and it was time.

“You can show me that when we’re safely back on American soil, soldier. For now…” you yanked him close again, pressed your palm to his cock. “Take what you need. Give me what I need.”

“Fuck,” he bit off, and then he was kissing you like a starving man falling upon a banquet, all tongues and teeth and Frankie, and you pressed as close to him as you could.

“How long do we have?” you panted out.

He shot his cuffs, checked his watch. “Quarter hour.”

“Then make every minute count, Morales.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he breathed. And he got on his knees in front of you, pulling at your jeans.

Your heart leapt into your chest at the first brush of his breath on your bare legs. Frankie rolled the denim down, ghosted a kiss over your underwear.

“You would not believe, baby, how often I’ve jacked off to the thought of having you,” he whispered.

“Fish, if you don’t do something, I swear to God…”

He took off his cap, passed it to you. “Wear this for me.” After you slapped it on your head, he pulled your hand back down, thrust it into his hair. You tugged him close as he yanked your underwear down and proceeded to fucking feast on you.

You’d never experienced Frankie like this. Near feral, his tongue licking at you like you were his last meal, his favourite food, a longed-for treat. He used his hands - hands you’ve wished were on you, inside you - to spread you so he could spear his tongue inside you, nip at your clit, write his name with his tongue, whatever the fuck he was doing, it felt like Heaven.

“Stop. Stop,” you whined, pushing at his hair. “Want to come with you inside me.”

He looked up, those cocoa eyes dark and hot and irresistible, and then he was on his feet in a hot second, and he spun you around to face the wall.

“Hold on to something, baby,” he muttered against your neck before he sank his teeth into the sensitive skin at your pulse point, the tiny hurt only making you wetter.

The sound of his belt buckle being undone and the shove of the denim down his thighs was loud to your ears.

“Please,” you gritted out, arching your back.

Frankie slid a palm down your naked butt, and you heard the growl in his voice when he said, “Sweet girl. When we get back on US soil….” And then he positioned himself and slid home in one smooth, hard thrust, and you gripped the hangar wall hard and cried out at the pleasure and the stretch. He kept going until he bottomed out, curses in English and Spanish falling from his lips in that husky baritone made for pure sin, and then as you groaned in satisfaction, he curled a hand around to your front and rubbed you in maddening circles.

“We don’t have long,” you warned, muscles already fluttering.

“Fuck. Won’t take long. You feel too good. You’re so fucking tight. How - how do you-”

“Fast and hard,” you instructed, and you felt him twitch inside you at your words, heard his moan. “I wanna feel you tomorrow, Francisco.”

“Oh fuck,” he grated out, and then he pulled almost all the way out before slamming back in. The force was just what you needed, and you cried out at the wonderful pressure, the push of him inside you, the texture and shape of him. Better, harder, larger than you had imagined.

You spread your legs as much as you could given the denim around your calves, and Frankie fucks you hard, keeping one hand on your hip and the other at the apex of your body, strumming you expertly.

“Wish we had more fucking time,” he rasped into your hair, pressing a frantic kiss there. “Sweet girl. You feel like heaven. Always.. Knew.. you would.”

“The things I’m gonna to do you when we get home,” you shot back, and pressed your hips into him. “Oh God, more, please.”

He upped the tempo, and the sound of your bodies slapping together was obscene. His fingers circled your clit once, twice more, and you flew off that sweet cliff edge, crying out his name and burying your face in your elbow to muffle the sound.

Frankie’s hips faltered as he gave you all he had, thrusting into you at a punishing pace before his hips stuttered.

“Two minute warning!” Ironhead yelled from outside.

“I want to feel you come inside me, Fish,” you whispered over your shoulder.

“Fuck.” And he tumbled over the precipice too, hips shaking. You felt him jerk inside you, felt the hot surge of his climax, and he pressed down hard on your clit, triggering another little orgasm for you, too.

“Jesus. Fuck.” Frankie leant his forehead on your back, panting. “Christ.”

“You gotta get some more swear words, Morales,” you said, but your breath hitched too, and you wiggled your hips, making him shiver.

He pulled out, zipped up, and then took care putting your clothes in order. When he tugged you close for a kiss, you tasted yourself.

“First fucking chance I get,” Frankie rasped, his lips in your hair, “I’m gonna take my sweet time doing everything I want to you. With you.”

“Then get us over those mountains, Francisco, and I’m yours.” You nip at his bottom lip, then sprang apart when Redfly yanked open the hangar door.

“Fuck’s sake, Fish, we thought you’d gone AWOL. It’s go time.”

“Copy that,” Frankie shot back. You let him leave first, glanced down to admire his ass in those jeans.

And you thought, with single-minded determination: We just need to get over these mountains. Then Francisco Morales would be all yours.

Redfly looked at his departing back and then turned to you, eyes narrowed. “Why are you wearing Fish’s hat?”

****

Tagging the Pedro pals: @emmy-dandiliom918 @thirstworldproblemss @cinewhore @poenariuniverse @keeper0fthestars @scarlettvonsass @casually-introverted @knittingqueen13 @phoenixhalliwell @10-96dispatcher @buckstaposition @agirllovespasta @songsformonkeys @gamingaquarius @mstgsmy @synystersilenceinblacknwhite @dornish-queen @maxphillipswasright @winters-buck @mourningbirds1 @pascalitomorales @mrsparknuts @alldatalost @abuttoncalledsmalls @mrschiltoncat @auty-ren @heatherbel

it’s 10.45pm my brain has failed if I left you off I apologize!!

#catfish x fem!reader #frankie morales x fem!reader

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essenteez · 3 years

Text

Scenarios & edits : Ateez as || horror and thriller psychos

Genre: horror, thriller, criminal, psychological

Warning: mentions of blo*d, m*rder, de*th dismembering, physical ab*se, torturing, parts of bodies, explicit language, mention of knife and being tied down. I guess I also kind of mentioned a pedo*hilia BUT DON’T WORRY IT’S A CRIME OF ONE OF ATZ’S VICTIMS, NOT ATZ’S. Horror mood in general. Edits also contain blood, skulls and some knives and creepy faces but they’re not that scary.

Words count: 2.7k

.•°•.

Hongjoong || ᴀʟᴄʜᴇᴍɪsᴛ

❧

You hated the place the moment you entered it. There were jars filled with eyeballs; every vessel contained different colored pupils. Your own eyes started to itch just from the sight.

“Detective”, you were called by one of the officers accompanying you on the scene, “No doubt, it’s him”.

“You don’t say” you gulped, seeing even more disgusting discoveries.

The apartment didn’t even closely resemble the other in the building. The walls were filthy, almost black. The whole room was filled with shelves of different sizes and heights. Eyeballs, bones, muscles…tongues. And the smell.. God the smell.

“Jesus Christ” you said louder, covering your nose from the growing stench.

“Y/n!” Your colleague yelled out.

You craned your neck to see your partner in the next room. The small space was surprisingly filled with only books. But of course, even those books were horrendous. You noticed a few pages as your coworker was skimming through it all.

“Look, detective! How to remove a whole spine” the younger officer seemed very amused with what he read.

“Funny as fuck, Summers”, you commented, passing him by. Your attention went back to your other partner, who stood with a black leather bound book, “What is that?”

“I guess his diary” he replied with disgust on his face and passed you the notebook, “Look at this. And the worst part is we have no idea where he fled”.

Your faced frowned at the first sentence, “Kim Hongjoong, you sick fuck”.

“Why do they scream? Why do they cry and wail everytime? Why do they continue to beg for their lives? I keep telling them their sacrifice will bring mankind closer to nature. They do not listen. They do not listen. Fighting, fighting me. I purify their bodies. I release all the minerals caged in their blood and bones. They merge back with the universe. They should be grateful and proud. It’s an honor. Why do they call me a murderer? They should celebrate and laugh. Loud like me”.

Seonghwa || ᴇᴠᴀɴɢᴇʟɪsᴛ

❧

There was no trace of the beautiful and nice young man you met in the church that evening. It was like the sweetest dream turning into the worst nightmare clothed in horror. At first his warm smile and then all of sudden his hands grabbing you and taking you away from the lights. You were surrounded by darkness.

“Where is your God now?” he grimaced, his cold voice made the fear creeping in you grow. A black mask hid his perfect face completely. All you could see was a pair of ice blue eyes, observing you intensively. Your tears and trembling seemed to satisfy him

“Where is he?” he growled, “He’s gone now. He left you all alone, Y/n”.

You wanted to muster the strength to tell him he was wrong but the cloth stuffed in your mouth forbade your words. The touch of the cold blade startled you, making you cry even harder while struggling to get free. Your wrists and ankles hurt from being restrained.

“Shhht”, he silenced you, putting the knife to your throat. His voice deep and reverberating through you.

“Don’t wait for a miracle. I am your god now”.

Yunho || ʟɪʙʀᴀʀɪᴀɴ

❧

Last flicks of the brush and it was finally ready. He had done it an uncountable amount of times. No stains of blood, no muscles. Pure bone.

That was the goal. Of course he couldn’t skip the prevention part. You need to take care of your trophies if you want them to last long.

He entered the chamber, holding his new skull and stroking it gently.

The darkness was consuming until thunder hit nearby and following lightning illuminated the overwhelmingly large space.

The ceiling, extremely high, dominating over two floors on two sides of a long hall.

At first you’d say it looked like an impressive library until you realized that instead of books there were thousands, if not millions of skulls, lurking at you with their empty eye sockets.

“1876, letter M… November”, he mumbled to himself, running his eyes through shelves. He smiled as he finally found the right spot, “Here it is!“

He put the new trophy beside another skull with metal tag that said "Charlotte Madley, Nov. 5th 1876”

“Look Charlie, I brought you a friend. Meet Emma. You know, you two have something in common. She died the exact same way you did”, He grimaced, brows frowning,“My hands took her last breath”.

Yeosang || ғʟᴏʀɪsᴛ

❧

You were looking at your sister, as your heart felt like it was slowly being crushed. A red rose in her hands, so vivid and fresh, contrasted with her pale, lifeless body. She looked like she was just sleeping, but deep wounds on her neck and the crimson color of her own blood said something else. She was really gone and you were all alone in the morgue with your dead sister.

“He dressed you for your own funeral” you sobbed to her as tears were streaming down your face. The dress that the murder put on her made you feel uneasy with its blackness. She hated black color. You wanted to rip it off the laced veil, covering her beautiful face but were too scared. You were scared that the moment you touch her, she’d break like fine porcelain.

“That’s his thing” a sudden voice caused you to flinch and return from the darkness corner of your thoughts. You looked over to the officer that just entered the room, holding some paperwork.

“He seduces them, then dresses them in all black..”, he said, trailing off, “He either uses a thin knife to precisely cut these holes or his teeth and then he drinks their blood”.

“Drink-?”, you mumbled, feeling more sick, “Wh- what do you mean?”

“Look at these bruises around the wounds, Miss. Those marks were made by sucking on the skin. I don’t know why he calls himself Florist when he’s just some vampire wannabe” he sort of chuckled.

“I guess maybe because he picks the most beautiful flowers”, you looked at the red rose that the monster put in your sister’s hands. You cleared your eyes, feeling the rage flooding your vision, “He should be careful, many of them are beautiful but poisonous

You scuffed, full of determination, "The next flower he’s going to find…will be his last”.

San || ᴄʜᴀʀᴏɴ

❧

Hidden behind the marble column, you knew you had to be as quiet as possible. Your hands tightly covering your mouth as you tried to mute your sobbing. Your eyes, trying their best not to look down at all the bodies laying at your feet. Tears were streaming down your face at the thought you might be the only one left alive out of all the guests at the banquet.

You knew exactly who that man was, the killer that terrorized all of Italy. People called him Charon or “Death of the Rich”. He preferred to be seen as God of death himself, Thanatos, leading the path of the death for his victims.

Laughing and screaming hysterically, “Call me Death itself!” as he spun around, slaughtering everyone in his path. He was lost in his true self, engulfed in his own desire for blood.

Suddenly you heard his words fade, slowly you put your hands down and leaned over to peek to see if the murderer was there. Your eyes widened at the site. He was dancing gracefully in silence, blood spatter glistening on his beautifully crafted face. His eyes were closed but never stepped on any of the bodies. It was almost hypnotizing.

His body seemed to float as he was performing his Danse Macabre. How could one be so beautiful but such a monster. You slowly moved back to your hiding spot. You just wanted him to leave and disappear. You wanted to run as far away as possible. You wanted to live.

“Shall we dance?” his deep voice made your heart drop. Your eyes slowly gazed up to see that he was bent over, staring at you. Amused smirk decorated his perfect but terrifying face. As your eyes met, he grasped your wrist and pulled you to the floor for the last dance.

Mingi || ᴍᴏᴜʀɴᴇʀ

❧

It was the most difficult and unusual case your father was ever assigned to investigate. In the 37 years of his detective career he had never been this dumbfounded. You watched your father reading the same reports all over again and drinking cup after cup of coffee. You, who suffered insomnia, witnessed all the painstaking hours.

“Are there really no trances of this man?” you once asked your father, handing him a hot cup of tea.

He let out a hagged sigh and nodded, thanking you for the beverage, “All we have are reports and missing bodies. It’s not enough for me and my team to even go out and search”.

“What do the reports say” you couldn’t hide your curiosity.

Your father took a sip of the hot liquid and again signed loudly, “Tall, young lad, in his early twenties. He drives black caravan carriage, led by two black horses. He takes fresh buried coffins and then leaves disappearing in the fog”.

“Aaaalright” you frowned at the lack of helpful information, sitting down next to your father at the table.

“Why don’t you wait for him at the cemetery? He’ll surely appear there again?”

“There is something else people reported”, he gulped but then cleared his throat loudly, “They say that there was a horrid face peeking out at them from the window of the carriage. An ulgy, bloody smile. They say they saw a real demon…”.

It’d been 6 months since you and you father laughed at the reports. But tonight you weren’t laughing. You saw him, with your own eyes while visiting your grandparents’ grave. Hearing the sound of digging and loud sobbing, you followed it. You hid behind a tomb and peeked. You expected to see a quiet funeral taking place but there he was. A beautiful man, all dressed in black. Within few minutes he had dug and pulled up a freshly buried coffin. Alone with his bare hands, crying heavily at the same time. You were too scared you had to pinch yourself to move. You ran as fast as you could towards the gates. You turned around to see if the creepy mourner was following you.

Turning your view forward again you all of sudden saw the black carriage right in front of you. You had no chance to slow down and collided with the side of the caravan. Bouncing to the ground with a thud, vision blurry you looked up at the window to see a pair of hollowed eyes fixated on you.

Wooyoung || ᴍᴀsᴋ

❧

“Can I show you something?” Wooyoung asked, looking curiously into your eyes. You could feel your face growing warmer and looked away.

“O-of course” you stuttered, biting your lower lip. He was standing so close to you that you could feel his warmth radiating off him. You’d always been the saint of your entourage but this man awoke the worst in you. You knew that sneaking out at night to meet up with him was a bad idea but it was also exciting and new to you.

He gently grabbed your wrist, stirring you up from your thoughts. Your eyes couldn’t help but examine his beautiful face and soft plump lips. You wished nothing more than to feel them on every part of your body.

“Show me, please"

His smirk caused you to gasp a little. He pulled you down a small hall near the back of his mansion. You were ready, you hoped that tonight would be the night you got to taste that man. He stopped in front of a black door and looked at you. You watched him smile at you before continuing to open the door. Behind the door you noticed a long, wooden staircase leading downwards. You didn’t even hesitate to follow when he walked through the frame. He was only holding you by your wrist but you felt as though your entire body was on fire. You hadn’t realized how long you had been walking due to being fixed on him and lost in your lude fantasies.

"We’re here” he said, halting suddenly causing you to slightly bump into his back. You looked up to see a humongous double-leaved door that chained up with a heavy iron lock. Was that his secret room? He lived alone so what was the purpose of this place?

“You’re special to me, Y/n” he whispered and let go of your wrist, You watched him pull out an old looking key, putting it into the lock, “That’s why it’s really hard for me to give you to her”.

“Her” you asked dumbfounded ‘What are you talking abo-“

Your words interrupted as you heard the lock click. The door swinging open, revealing total darkness.

"Eeemilyyy?” Wooyoung called into the void, “Your brother brought you your new toy! Come take a look!” he bellowed, vividly amused.

Suddenly a little girl's giggles emerged through the air. You wanted to run but the fear enveloped your legs keeping you in place. The creepy laugh was getting closer and Wooyoung’s smile became wider, more sinister.

“Please be gentle with Miss Y/n, all right?” he warned his sister, a face emerging from the dark.

You kees grew weak at the terrible sight, “I also want to play with her” he breathed, as an invisible force pulled you into the darkness, doors slamming shut. Your screams echoing into the abyss.

Jongho || ʟᴏʀᴅ

❧

The heavy rain had kept the entirety of Oxford in their homes for days. The rainfall’s intensity blinded and paralyzed the entire city. Not a soul was about the streets. All expect for two. A man was fearfully attempting to escape from the horrid one who trailed him. The mysterious Lord slowly walked after his prey, squabbling before him on the cobblestones. His black shoes sloshed through the puddles that were colored with the fearful one’s blood. The sound of rain and the rush of water surpassed all that could be heard to others.

“You know what's funny, William?” asked the loud and vividly amused male voice, “The same storm happened exactly a year ago, I recall. You know what else also happened then?”

The injured man refused to answer. This wasn’t supposed to happen, it was all wrong. He just wanted to meet the young miss who he had a planned date with, on this awful day.

“Help” the crippled man screamed.

“Oh William” the cloaked Lord chuckled.

“Hel-” his second cry got cut off as a sudden weight pinned him to the wet stones.

“A year ago William”, the figure hissed, demanding the answer, “What happened a year ago?”

“I don’t know!” he shouted as the result of the figure pulling back on his arms.

“Let me refresh your memory then. Y/n, do you remember her?” the attacker asked.

William’s face went pale as his past fiance flashed before his eyes. The woman that suddenly disappeared.

“Do you remember how you made her trust you, how you stained her honor and betrayed her? How she lost everything? he snarled.

"I remember!” William screamed as the pain began to become unbearable, “What do you want from me?!”

“Oh,” the Lord exclaimed, “I want you to suffer” an evil grin crept on his face.

The pain suddenly faded. William relaxed a bit, looking over to see what the thump he heard was. His eyes widen at the sight of someone’s arms and legs lying next to him. Terror took over him as he attempted to crawl away but there was nothing to crawl with. Realization settled in as he was bleeding out. The limbs were his.

The monster before him laughed, giving an evil chuckle before sinking his glistening fans into one of dismembered man’s gushing arteries, draining him of life. William only had seconds left of his wretched life.

“I’m leaving you to rot just as you left her that day, you scum”, the monster wiped his mouth before continuing, “Y/n is happy. I took care of that. Just like the 13 year old girl I saved from your hands today will be as well”

William watched as the mysterious lord stood and brushed himself off, turning to leave him to die. The light faded, all he heard was the vampire laughing with excitement until he couldn’t hear it anymore.

[Bonus to this scenario 《 Jongho Vampire smut 》

.•°•.

So my hiatus is finally over. I’m relaxed and I feel full charged again! Hope it means that many good ideas are coming to my one braincell 🤣

Hope you enjoyed my horror scenarios and edits!! (edits were made much earlier that’s why some it them have my other watermark)

♡

@necteez on IG - new account with edits

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ill-skillsgard · 3 years

Text

Faust x Faith - No Looking Back

Warning: 18+ smut, public sex, violence, blood, arson, implied death, mentions of non-consensual touching (nothing explicit and no r-words used,) mentions of stalking, unconsciousness, anti-religious themes, strong language.

Note: Hey, hey. I’ve wanted to write this for a while, but haven’t had much time. This isn’t based on any requests—just something I feel needs to happen to move the universe along. After this, I’ll be basing future FxF stuff off drabble requests instead of going story-heavy for a bit. Likes, comments and reblogs are suuuper ‘ppreciated!

Summary: - Not based on Lords of Chaos. I use Faust!Valter’s likeness only as inspiration - 3.6K words -

Faust makes good on his word to protect Faith, taking drastic measures to assure her assailant never bothers her again.

Read more Faust x Faith here [x]

Thin raindrops pattered the man's leather jacket as he walked through the streets with his hood drawn up and his eyes low. For two days, the drizzle persisted and melted the black snowbanks into slush. Though the dismal atmosphere kept most inside, Sven had good reason to travel across town on foot. The promise of a girl's company waited at the end of his route, and he put off his regular nightly routine of masturbating to fetish porn for—what he hoped was—the real thing.

He glanced at his cracked phone screen every few minutes to check in with her, making sure she hadn't changed her mind, that she was serious. From the earnestness of her messages and the speed at which she replied to his questions, he determined she meant what she said about wanting to meet. Finally, his luck was turning. He’d show that miserable bastard Faust who was the better man.

- What abt ur bf? Lol

- What about him? Not here, is he?

- Thought u were a good girl.

- Haha, not really. Are you close?

- Ya. Y r we meeting at this random place?

- I need you to promise you won't tell a soul. If you can prove that to me, maybe we can keep meeting up.

- Lol ok. I PROMISE I won't say a word😉

- Thank you. Hurry, please. It's cold out!

- Be there in 5. I'll let u wear my jacket altho idk might not need it😉

- Hehe omgosh. You're making me blush.

- I'll make u do way more then blush baby. Just wait.

Sven lengthened his strides and turned the corner onto a hill leading toward the industrial area of town. Down the slope, he walked past several warehouses and legions of trucks parked inside barbed-wire fencing. It was a peculiar site to meet up, but his rendezvous insisted on a place nobody would think to look.

Betting his night would take an erotic turn, Sven popped a piece of gum in his mouth and chewed away the cigarette taste. He was seconds away from the spot she chose to meet, and his chest constricted with excitement. His boots crunched over gravel and garbage as he walked down a narrow alley between two faceless buildings. There was an open lot at the end of the lane, where he assumed she was waiting. As he made his way through the dimly lit alley, he whistled to make his presence known. The shrill tune reverberated off an overflowing dumpster to his left, and as he stepped to clear the reeking trash receptacle, something hard and blunt swung out at eye-level and flattened him to the ground.

Dazed and blinded from the sudden strike, he tried moving his mouth, but only a bubble of blood popped from his lips. A piercing stream of sound filled his ears as the edges of his vision turned dark. A large black figure came into view above, haloed by the soggy grey sky in the deepening veil. The featureless shadow chuckled deeply before a heavy boot's tread put out his lights.

~*~

Several hours passed before Sven's eyelids shuddered. By then, his assailant had had plenty of time to tie him to a wooden chair and organize his instruments of punishment. A headache blistered through the man's skull, throbbing in his eye sockets until he gained enough consciousness to open them. When he saw the person who had knocked him out, his throat closed and the gasp ripping through came out high-pitched.

"Faust... Please... Don't—" Sven hiccoughed. "Don't do this. I'm sorry. I'm SORRY!"

Faust, who had been facing the doorway at the end of a long red runner, turned toward Sven, holding a hammer's handle in one hand while cradling the head in the other. A malicious smirk peeked out from a curtain of black hair. He took a step forward, the clomp of his leather boots echoing through the church. Each step made a menacing sound that bit down on Sven's nerves and rattled his sensitive skull.

"What are you apologizing for?"

"I know you hate me, but please, don't hurt me. I swear I'll never talk to her again!"

Faust approached, flashing the obsidian hammerhead. He tossed the tool in his grip and stuck his hand into his pocket, producing several five-inch nails.

"No! God, no, please! Faust! Don't do this!"

The black-haired giant stopped to admire the curve of the hammer’s prongs. Sven looked around the empty church and saw a jerrycan taking up space in a nearby pew. He immediately started struggling against the jute rope binding his wrists and ankles to the chair as Faust drew nearer, smile uncoiling.

"I already gave you the chance to never talk to her again. Remember?"

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"

"Sorry means fuck all to me. You should know that. The only reason you left the campsite with your dick intact is because of the witnesses," Faust said, then spun around with his arms out, showcasing their solitude. "Now, it's just you and me."

"Please don't," Sven muttered through swollen lips. "Fuck, I'll do anything!"

"There's nothing you can do. Nothing a sorry sack of human waste can provide this world to make me change my mind."

"SHE LIED!"

Faust jingled the nails in his jacket, reminding Sven who held the weapon.

"Whatever she told you... It's not true! I was at the party, but I didn't do anything to her!" Sven's voice cracked.

"Oh... So you didn't follow her into my bedroom?"

"No! I talked to her for a minute, and that's all. That's all, I swear, Faust. Don't kill me."

The stomp of boots neared the altar where Sven struggled in the chair. He twisted to loosen the rope and slipped one hand out. Faust grabbed his wrist and pinned it to the arm of the chair, readying a nail between his lips as he gripped the hammer. Sven let out a scream, stifled instantly by the hammerhead. Faust wedged the metal between his teeth and hissed.

"Shut the fuck up, or I'll use this to smash your teeth out like a goddamn window. Understand me?"

Sven nodded and quaked as Faust placed the tip of the nail against the soft, flat part of his forearm.

"Stay still. If I fuck up and hit the Radial or Ulnar artery... You could bleed out before I'm done. Gotta get it right between the bones." Faust slapped the pale skin to reveal blue veins. He pressed the nail’s tip in place and rose the hammer above his head, bringing it down and stopping short of the head as Sven shrieked.

Faust cackled. "Jesus Christ, dude. Did you really think I was gonna nail you to a chair?"

Sven groaned, relieved and moist with cold sweat. "Faust, I'm serious. Please, man. You gotta believe me."

His dark laughter continued, bouncing off the high ceilings, the wooden pews and polished floors. As Sven let out his own nervous chuckle, Faust brought the hammer down in one swift pull, then slapped his hand over Sven's gaping mouth to stifle the screams. Howling, Sven rattled his head back and forth as a searing bolt of pain tore through his right arm, crackling in his shoulder where it burned and burned.

Faust tore his phone out of his back pocket and brought up a video, slamming the screen into Sven's face. The video of him grabbing Faith in his room while he was states away watching the live feed from the camera he'd set up on the desk.

"I knew these little cameras would come in handy. See? I know what you did, you stupid fuck. And you know what else? I would have just beat the shit out of you had I not stopped by your place before our little meeting."

Sven whined, tears pouring from his eyes in steady streams.

"Oh, yeah. That's right. I went into your room... Saw some interesting things on your computer. At first, I thought it was just standard fucking creep shit. Snuff porn, torture... Teen girls. None of that surprised me... Until I dug around and found your little stalker file buried in your folders. You didn't even encrypt it. How fucking stupid are you?"

"I'm sorry," Sven shook.

"Why are you apologizing to me?"

"I'm sorry for touching her. I should have left her alone."

"What'd you think was gonna happen? That she wouldn't tell me? Or that I wouldn't believe her? And now I know you've been following Faith around, taking pictures of her, you fucking predator. And what about those other women, huh? You sorry about them, too?"

"Yes! I'm sorry. I know I have problems! I'm trying to get help. Please, Faust. If you let me go, I promise I'll do it. I'll get better. I haven’t hurt anyone!"

Faust shook his head slowly, grunting in refusal. "No. I meant what I said when I told you I'd crucify you if you went near Faith again. I'm doing the world a favour."

Sven hung his head and bled from the grievous wound pinning him to the chair, shuddering weakly from his injuries. Faust would never relent. He'd witnessed the drummer's cold disdain, the malignant hatred living inside that made him turn to the dark with open arms. Faust wasn't an actor. He pledged himself to the darkness with unyielding conviction, never one to take such things lightly. This realization depleted Sven's will to reason with the man.

Faust gripped another thick nail and drove it through Sven's left arm, smiling as blood dripped from the wood onto the church altar. The violent yelps filled Faust with morbid delight as he pressed the bloodied hammer under his victim's chin and raised his face.

"You're gonna die tonight, Sven."

"What makes you better than me? You'll be a murderer," Sven stuttered. "You hurt people, too."

"You and I are not the same. Don't ever compare yourself to me. You're a coward, and I warned you. Tread on what's mine, and I'll destroy you. That's what I said."

"All this over a girl? Are you fucking crazy!?"

Faust stooped to one knee, looking up at Sven as though the insult had cut him. Faust's brows arched, bottom lip jutting outward as he studied Sven, who closed his eyes. Then, Faust rose to his feet, leather stretching from the motion. Faust tapped his chin, smiled, and leaned over to whisper, "yes... Totally fucking crazy."

With a powerful kick to the chest, Faust sent the chair and Sven toppling backward. He then unzipped his pants, pulled out his manhood and giggled as he emptied his bladder on the weeping man. While Sven cried and moaned, Faust closed his zipper, whistling merrily. He left Sven on his back and snatched the jerrycan from the pew, taking slow, calculated steps while twisting off the cap and dousing the altar in gasoline.

As the gas trickled, Sven's desperation mounted. He could not flail, so he screamed. Faust gently reminded him what he'd do to Sven's teeth if he carried on shouting. The pinned man blubbered and begged, but Faust ignored his pleas. Inside his head, all Faust heard was the sound of flames rushing into a circle around Sven, crackling over the carpet and up the old church's wooden beams. By the time the roof caught fire, Faust had planned on being long gone.

"Please, Faust... You'll regret this! I know you're a serious person, but this is too far. You won't be able to live with yourself!"

"Wrong. I couldn't live with myself knowing I let a vulture like you walk this planet freely." Faust poured a trail down the floor runner, far away from the altar. He tossed the can aside and looked up at the Catholic saints' stained-glass portrayals and Jesus at the center of it all, staring down with sad eyes. Faust took a book of matches from his pocket and ripped one from the bunch, running its tip across the ignitor strip until a small flame burst to life. Faust flicked the match to the ground without a second thought, and the flame ate up the gasoline trail swiftly. The church was illuminated, and the colourful glass windows came to life. Faust raised his eyes to the forlorn Jesus and leered while the fire spread.

He did not stay to admire his work or revel in the cries of a man burning alive. Faust fled before the fire consumed the church, not once looking back or wondering if his victim had somehow escaped. He trudged through puddles of slush, hair swinging in the wind, white shadows of breath leaving his mouth.

It was time to get back to finish the tour. But he had one more stop to make.

~*~

Faith left the mall after helping close the book store. She received small smiles and nods from the mall staff as they locked doors and unfolded security gates. Some of the people she had spoken to before, and some she had only seen in passing. Though she returned their pleasantries, inside Faith was fretting. She tried not to worry about her boyfriend or ask where he was under strict orders to go about her day as usual.

She stepped into the evening air as the sun sank, taking the blue from the sky along for the descent. Wisps of white cloud stretched across the pink and violet above. Faith took in a deep breath and walked to the bus stop situated between a movie theatre and a dollar store. She popped her earbuds in and turned on a song that reminded her of Faust; one he wouldn’t like. His music taste had no room for the upbeat indie rock she enjoyed. Still, she smiled when the lyrics reminded her of him.

The scent of cigarette smoke caught her attention, and she looked around, finding no culprit. She wondered where the smell came from if nobody was around but soon forgot when the city bus appeared in the distance. It had to make a long trek around the parking lot before it pulled up at the movie theatre. Faith readied her bus card to scan as another cloud of smoke enveloped her senses.

Faith whirled around, and there he was, all black and leather, white teeth clutching the filter of a cigarette. Faust smiled, his words bolting from his mouth as she clamped her arms around him and crushed her face into his chest. The leather and musk brought tears to her eyes. She ripped out her earbuds and tried not to weep.

He hushed her, lifted her off the ground and retreated into the shadowed alley between the theatre and the store. By the time the bus pulled up, Faust had pressed her against the brick wall behind the building.

"Faust. Oh my gosh, where have you been? I was so worried," Faith gasped.

"Sh, don't ask questions, baby." Faust smothered her mouth, holding her thighs around his waist.

"Mm—I love you. Oh my God. I can’t believe you’re here! I love you so freaking much."

"I know you do," Faust breathed against her lips. "I love you, too, babe."

"Tell me where you've been!"

Faust shook his head and kissed her neck instead. She raked her fingers through his hair, knocking his hood down so she could see him unobstructed.

"Told you... Don't ask... Mmkay?... Stop asking... Just let me... Mm—fuck!"

Faith pulled his pelvis inward with her thighs, rubbing against his crotch and the heavy bullet belt wrapped around his hips. In their cloud of lust, Faust pushed his black jeans down just enough to free his erection.

"Fuck, I love your little skirts. Makes it so easy," Faust murmured.

The thought of Faust showing up disquieted her, but his lips on her skin and his desire thwarted these anxieties for a while. She set aside her questions, happy to have him in her arms again and overcome by arousal. When he stretched her panties aside and pushed into her, they both froze in expressions of excruciating ecstasy. Faust tilted his head back and closed his eyes, and Faith clutched his shoulders, already writhing from the intense fulfillment between her legs.

Just as she thought Faust might drop her, he bent his knees and hoisted her higher up on the wall. In his arms, she weighed close to nothing. She missed feeling tiny against him.

"Miss my cock?" He growled in her ear.

"Yes, baby. Oh my gosh, of course, I missed it. I missed my big man."

"Yeah? Fuck, I miss my little pussy," Faust breathed. "Mm, show me those gorgeous tits."

Faith unbuttoned her work polo and stretched the collar down around her breasts for Faust to bury his face. Though there wasn't an abundance of flesh to lose himself in, Faust shivered from the first taste of her nipples. With muted groans of pleasure, he rammed into her until Faith could no longer contain her cries, unaccustomed to his girth. Faust absorbed her whimpers with his mouth, coaxing her tongue until she only hummed.

He felt ferocious from the last twenty-four hours. If he could make Faith scream without drawing attention, Faust would have slammed her into the wall and fucked her until she shredded her vocal cords. He had to keep a low profile. Even visiting Faith was a considerable risk, but one he relished taking as she clamped her thighs and rutted against him.

He supported her ass in both hands and shifted off the wall to fuck her standing up. While he took her this way, she wrapped her arms around his neck and whimpered, whispering, "yes, fuck my pussy hard, big boy. Oh, I love that big cock inside me."

Faust unhooked and held her out so he could watch her breasts jiggle with every bounce. "You still taking your birth control? I'm gonna fucking bust so hard inside you, baby."

"Yeah. Yeah, baby, do it. Fill my pussy, please. I want your cum."

Her dirty talk and sweet sobs for his cock pushed him over the edge. He cradled her head as he pushed her against the wall and throbbed between her legs until empty. Faust pulled out and immediately turned her around and bent her over to watch globs of fresh cum dripping from her wet slit. He used one finger to push some of it back inside and had her suck off the rest. Afterward, he pulled up his pants and compressed her against the wall, one hand over her mouth while the other worked her clit in gentle circles. Faust didn't stop until she squealed and shuddered against him, muffled in his jacket and writhing from the manual orgasm.

When Faith calmed down, he released her and stepped away, pulling a cigarette from the squished pack in his jacket pocket. The lighter's flame created an orange halo around his face and promptly died. He smoked like nothing had happened while she fixed her skirt, buttoned her polo and zipped up her coat.

Faith smiled up at her lover, the night blotting out most of his features.

"I'm so glad you're home," she said.

"Not for long," Faust exhaled.

Her heart quivered. "Wait, what?"

"I gotta go back."

"When?"

"Tonight."

"What? No! But... You just got back," said Faith.

Faust shrugged, his leather jacket speaking for him. The evening matured, consuming the details of her hurt expression until the streetlamps along the road came to life.

"Why did you come here?"

Faust took one last long haul off his cigarette and flicked it down the alleyway. "Listen to me, Faith... You need to quit asking questions. I'm serious. The more questions you ask, the worse it'll be. And you and I did not see each other tonight. As far as you know, I'm on tour. Understand?"

"Yes," Faith said to appease him.

"I want to stay, trust me. But I can't. You know why. All the answers you want, you already have. Don't keep bugging, don't mention it ever again."

"I want to go with you," she whispered.

"No. You stay. Go to your classes, go to work, go visit your parents. Everything normal. And I don't want you moping around either. You put on that pretty smile, and you pretend for me. I'll call you in a couple of weeks before the last show and arrange a way for you to get there."

"What do you mean you’ll call in couple of weeks?" Faith whined. “What about goodnights?”

"I don't have a phone anymore."

"Why—? Oh, um... Okay. I understand."

Faust gathered the girl up in his arms and kissed the top of her head. "Good girl. I love you, and I miss you."

"I love you, too."

He tipped her face up and sensed tears forming in her eyes. Faust shook his head. "No crying. We'll see each other very soon. Just a couple more weeks."

"I know," she sighed.

"I love you more than anything, Faith. Now, go catch your bus. Should be here in a few minutes."

"But what about you?"

"Don't worry about me. I'm on tour. I'm not even here," he explained.

Faust kissed her again, smoothed his hands over her shoulders and turned her to face the bus stop. He urged her along. "No looking back. Hop on the bus and go do your schoolwork."

"Okay," she said, determined to make him proud. Faith walked out of the shadows and into the lamplight hovering over the depot. Across the lot, the city bus pulled in, and though she longed to turn around to see Faust watching over her, she kept her eyes forward and waited. When the bus pulled up, and the doors drew back, she stepped onto the platform and smiled at the driver as she scanned her pass. Faith took a seat in the back and put in her earbuds. She searched through a list of bands and selected the only one whose logo was illegible. As she pressed play, she listened to the immediate assault of the drums, their constant and violent beat. Faith smiled—warm in her chest and between her legs.

#faust x faith #valter skarsgård smut #valter skarsgård fanfiction #valter skarsgard fanfiction #Valter Skarsgard imagine

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whumpering-heights · 3 years

Note

Can... Can Sidekick give Villain a hug from me..?

(A/N: So.. this one kind of got out of hand, lol. Don’t worry anon, your hug is in there, it’s just near the end. This is part of my ‘hero and villain’ series, I’ll make a masterlist tomorrow.) CWs: blood, head wound, beating mention (not featured), nerve damage, implied starvation, drugs, yelling, (in an very accusatory way), implied abuse, slight dehumanization, begging. If I missed any, please let me know.

Villain and Sidekick (3)

Sidekick heard Hero return from the basement before he saw him. He was whistling. Sidekick, who was standing in the kitchen, called over: “How’s it going?” “Oh, it’s going very well.” responded Hero. He stepped through the door, and Sidekick turned to ask some more. His voice stopped when he saw the blood splatters on Hero’s knuckles. The man walked over to the sink, still whistling, and started washing his hands. “Oh, uhm. Did he act up today?” asked Sidekick. Hero looked puzzled for a second, before he laughed. “Oh, because of the blood? No, he’s actually very well behaved now. I even let him out of the chair. He should be almost ready for the show.” Right away, there were numerous questions buzzing through Sidekick’s mind. What show? If he was well behaved, why did you hit him? Just what are we doing to him? Before he could decide which one to ask first, Hero interrupted his thinking. “Actually, could you go and clean him up for me? Use the hose in the garage.” Sidekick’s stomach churned. He hadn’t gone back to the cell since his secret trip. If he was honest, he didn’t want to see how Villain was doing. He didn’t want to know. "Uhm, can I do it later? Or maybe-” “Sidekick.” A chill ran down Sidekick’s spine at Hero’s tone. He wasn’t smiling anymore. His voice was low, calm. Dangerous. “Don’t make me ask twice.” Sidekick almost let the chair fall to the ground in his haste to get up. “Right! Okay, yes, uh, right away, Hero.”

He dragged the coiled-up hose, all-purpose cleaner and some cleaning rags down the stairs. He’d also grabbed the first aid kit, but Hero made him put it back. Said it wouldn’t be necessary. As he walked up to the cell door, he thought of all the things he wished he could say to Hero. I don’t want to clean him up, he thought. He’s going to be all sad and hurt, and it should make me happy, I know, but it doesn’t. Just hand him over to prison again, and don’t make me clean up your bloody, uhm, your damn mess. But of course, he would never say that to Hero. So instead, he stood in front of the cell door, gathering courage. He took a deep breath and opened the door in the same way one would rip off a band aid. The room was a mess. It smelled of sweat and the air was dank. Sidekick scrunched his nose. The tiled floor and the walls had small splatters of blood on them. Not a lot, like someone had been stabbed, more like a very severe beating. Some of the blood looked old. Like Hero had said, Villain was not in the chair, although it still stood in the middle of the room. Sure enough, there he was: a sad little pile of a man huddled in the furthest corner. Sidekick couldn’t really see much of Villain while he was so curled up. All he saw, was a tangled mess of dark hair and thin, boney arms and legs. The man flinched when he opened the door and curled up even smaller. “Hey.” called Sidekick. “Don’t worry, it’s me. I’ve come to clean you up.” The man unfurled a bit at that. Sidekick could see his face a bit, now. His hollow, wide eyes were bloodshot and rimmed with dark circles. One eye was had swollen purple bruising around it, and there were dried tracks of blood from his nose. His pupils were blown wide with whatever was still in his system, despite him not being hooked up to the IV. He didn’t say anything; he just stared. “Right.” said Sidekick. “Let’s get this started.” He tested the hose, aiming it at the floor, and almost dropped it from the kickback. Oh, right, it was high-pressure. He looked back and forth between the nozzle and Villain. Using it on him wouldn’t injure him, probably. But it would hurt, especially if Hero beat him up. Sidekick worried his lip. Experimenting, he held up the hose so the water came out vertically. It went up in an arc before falling to the floor in heavy droplets. That’d have to do. “Hey Villain,” he asked, “can you wash yourself?” There was no response, Sidekick looked over to see Villain staring off, his wide eyes vacant. “Hello? Did you hear me?” Sidekick stepped a bit closer, which did elicit a response. The man jumped and raised his arms over his head. “Nh-sorry, please, don’t-don’t put me-please-” “I’m not putting you back, relax.” Villain stopped talking but didn’t lower his arms. Sidekick sighed. “I’m not gonna hurt you, okay? Now, can you wash yourself or not?" Villain peeked out from under his arms. “Uhm, I don’t... Can I wash myself? May, I mean, may I, I’m-” He apparently lost his train of thought, staring ahead again for a second. ‘I’m.. Uh, what-what was the question?” Sidekick groaned. “Jesus Christ. Look,” he held up the hose again and demonstrated the improvised shower. “Now. Can. You. Wash. Your. Self?” he punctuated every word with a gesture. Finally, it seemed to register, and Villain nodded. “Great. Here’s some stuff, do your thing.” Sidekick handed him the soap and cleaning rag, took a step back and turned on the hose again. The water clattered down just in front of Villain. Sidekick turned around to give him some privacy, and also because he didn’t want to see it anyway. A few seconds after he did, he realised he probably shouldn’t turn his back to someone like Villain. But, well. He didn’t seem like much of a threat anymore. Sidekick had taken him on in hand-to-hand back when he was healthy, he could handle him now. He heard Villain shift and move into the stream. A startled gasp sounded from behind him. The water was probably cold. Well, there wasn’t much Sidekick could do about that. The water splashed as Villain started scrubbing, and then Sidekick heard a wet thud. “You okay back there?” He called back. He heard a soft groan, but Villain responded: “Y-yes, I-I I can try, sorry.” Some more scrubbing, and another thud, a louder one this time. “Need a hand?” “No! No, I'm okay, I c-can wa-whash, hm.” Villain didn’t finish his sentence, trailing off. The scrubbing resumed. Sidekick didn’t say anything. He decided, if he was going to fall one more time, he would help. He understood why Villain didn’t admit he fell, it probably felt really embarrassing. But he didn’t want to him to get hurt too badly. He barely finished that thought, when he heard something slip and fall again. “Okay, that does it,” he called. “Are you decent? I’m turning around and helping.” “No! No, please!” He heard the water on the floor splash as Villain moved, probably moving backwards. “I don’t care about your ego, Villain, you’re going to break your neck like this. Do us both a favor, and cover yourself, yeah?” Sidekick turned around. Villain was still clothed, so that was a plus. A trickle of blood, thinned out by the water, ran over his forehead. He sat back in the corner Sidekick’d found him in, raising his hands again. “No, sir, I’ll try harder, don’t, don’t put me back, please-!” Sidekick crouched down. “Hey, nutcase, look at me. I’m not Hero, and am not putting you back. Shut up, look at me.” Villain stopped blabbering and looked at him. His eyes were teary and his breath was strained, like he was close to crying. Sidekick pinched the bridge of his nose. “I am not putting you back. Okay? No chair. Zero chair today, so stop freaking out.” The words seemed to reach Villain through whatever high he was on, and he calmed down a little. “Ah, thank you. Th-thank you.” Sidekick shrugged. He grabbed the soaked towel and moved to get started on cleaning him. At his approach, Villain flinched and curled inward again. “Nh-no, please-” The begging spilled out almost on instinct, it seemed. Sidekick felt a twinge in his gut. Frustrated, he threw the towel on the ground and snarled: “Will you stop acting so pathetic? It’s- it’s sad! It’s freakin’ weird!” He got up and paced back and forth. “I mean, are you doing this on purpose? Are you trying to make me feel sorry for you? Huh?” He looked back at Villain, who was trembling and had covered his head with his hands. “Nh-Please, I'm-” “Stop that!” yelled Sidekick. “It won’t work, okay? Like, your acting isn’t even convincing, so knock it off!” The shaking didn’t stop. Sidekick could hear small, hitchy breaths. “’M sorry,” Villain whimpered.“’m sorry, sir, I’ll try better, I’ll-” “No, that’s exactly what I’m talking about! Stop being so-” Sidekick gestured with his hands vaguely, trying to find the right word. “so.. Not-you! Just-” He crouched back down, purposefully getting in Villain’s personal space. He pushed back into his corner like he’d phase through if he just pushed hard enough. Sidekick leaned in close. “Come on, say something. Tell me to piss off, give me one of your smartass comments. I know you’re still in there.” The man didn’t respond. “If you don’t admit you’re lying, I’m using the hose.” warned Sidekick. He couldn’t see Villain’s face, but he saw the shudder run through his body. “Hmm, no, please... You’re right, I’m lying, sir. I’ll- I’ll try harder.” Sidekick groaned and rubbed his face. “That's not what I’m.. Fine. If you want to keep playing your game, go ahead. Just know it won’t work on me.” He studied Villain’s form. He kept hoping that he would unfurl and admit it was all a ruse. He would give one of his comebacks, probably pull a gadget from god knows where, and make a daring escape. But the shuddering mess of limbs before him didn’t look like he was pretending. If he was, he’d missed his calling as actor. But if he really was as pathetic as he looked... The terrible ache in his gut got worse. Sidekick rose to his feet and walked over to the concrete wall of the cell, and punched it with a grunt. Despite the pain, it made him feel a bit better, so he continued. He briefly wondered if he should release his feelings on Villain. After all, they were his fault. But that thought made the twinge intensify, so he kept punching the wall. When he was done, his knuckles were red and scraped. He had trouble closing his hand fully to a fist. Despite that, he was relieved. He leaned his forehead on the wall and took a deep breath. “Okay, let’s get this over with.” He turned around. Villain moved even further from him, which Sidekick hadn’t thought possible. He sighed. “I told you, I’m not going to hurt you. I’m just going to help you wash up, okay?” Sidekick’s voice wasn’t laced with anger anymore. He felt calmer, almost detached. He knelt down and pried Villains arms away from his face. He had his eyes scrunched shut and turned his face away, but didn’t fight back. Sidekick pushed down the anger that welled up again, and set about cleaning him.

He started by grabbing the discarded hose and starting the vertical spray again. It was a little hard to aim, so a bunch of water drenched him, as well. The majority ended in Villain’s hair, though. He shuddered, at the cold or from fear, Sidekick couldn’t tell. When his hair was drenched, Sidekick grabbed the soap and started working it into the hair. The soap stung his knuckles something awful, and he winced. As he worked the soap through the disgusting mess, he remembered Villain had hit his head earlier. Sure enough, just above his temple, he could feel the dried-up blood. Villain winced and made a small noise in the back of his throat when the soap touched it. “Yeah, well,” said Sidekick. “That one’s kind of on you.” He continued trying to detangle and clean his hair, which proved an impossible task. Some parts had become so matted, it resembled felt. Sidekick gave up on trying to achieve flowing locks and focused on getting most of the junk out. Another indirect spray with the hose, and most of the now dingy coloured soap duds were washed down the drain in the middle of the room. Awful convenient, that drain was. Sidekick tried not to think on why it was installed. He paused a moment. It would be best if Villain undressed for this, right? And they were both guys, that made it a bit better, he supposed. He had to change him into the new clothes anyway. He still hesitated. “Hey, Villain, uhm. I kind of need your clothes off for this part. Is that, uhm. Are you cool with that?” Villain blinked his eyes open. “I'm, hm. My clothes off?” “Yeah, sorry, I have to. Do you wanna do it yourself, or...?” Sidekick didn’t know why he asked. Maybe if he tried to without asking, Villain would get too freaked out to cooperate. It wasn’t like he actually cared what Villain wanted, of course. It was just convenient this way. Villain nodded. “I, uh, I can. I can try.” Still shaking, he grabbed the hem of his shirt. He didn’t use his right hand, letting it awkwardly hang somewhere up to his chest. After some fumbling, he managed to pull the shirt that once used to be white over his head. When he’d gotten it off, he reminded Sidekick of a newborn kitten: all watery eyes and wobbling limbs. “Righto.” He said. “I’ll, uh. I’ll get to it, then.” He grabbed to cloth again and carefully helped wash off the worst of the grime. Villain’s torso was covered in bruises, some almost healed, others looked fresh. He was so thin. Sidekick could have counted his ribs from across the room, and could have told you which ones were broken as well. He avoided brushing over the healing bones and was thankful he didn’t set the hose directly on him as he’d planned. As he set to wash his twig-like arms, he felt that ache in his stomach return. He looked so frail, so... broken. His wrists were rubbed raw from the leather straps holding him down. Sidekick didn’t look at Villain face. Just pretend you’re scrubbing the floor, he told himself. A very fragile, shivering mess of a floor. As he finished, he didn’t look up. “Right, uhm. Your pants are next.” He did let him keep his underwear on; he was not touching that. He let him clean that part himself while he stayed turned around. He heard him slip and lose his balance a few times, but at least he didn’t fall. Afterwards, he helped him wash his legs. He worked down his right leg. The shin was a little raised and just slightly crooked where the break had been. He braced himself when he had to scrub over the spot, but Villain didn’t react. Seemed like it was fully healed, then. He moved further down, to where the manacle was still clamped over Villain’s ankle. Seemed like overkill to him, but what did he know. As he moved it aside to inspect the skin underneath, he saw that it was rubbed raw, like one big inflamed scrape wound. He grimaced in sympathy for the next part. “Sorry, I have to clean that, too. I’ll be quick.” He got some foam going on the cloth and pressed it down. Villaindidn’t react, not even a twitch in the leg. Sidekick, who sat with his back to Villain, guessed he must be tougher than he thought. He started dabbing. “You’re doing great,” he assured. “This must hurt, but I’m almost done.” “Wh-what are you, hm, d-doing? What-what hurts?” He glanced over his shoulder to Villain. “Your ankle. Doesn’t the soap sting?” The man shook his head. “N-no. Can't feel anything.” Sidekick blinked. “Wait, so-” he pinched Villain’s foot. “do you feel that?” He shook again. Sidekick took a breath between his teeth. “Oh, yikes, that’s uhm. I’m pretty sure that’s bad. How long’s it been like that?” Villain frowned, looking pensive. “I’m..that's, how-how long’ve I been here? That, minus, uhm, I don’t know, a-a week?” So a couple of months. Sidekick remembered with horror when he set the leg and kicked it. Twice. Was this his fault? Or had the damage already been done before that? Did it matter? He swallowed. Suddenly his throat felt tight. “Okay, that-that sucks. If I did that, I didn’t mean to. Uh, I’ll talk to Hero, I’m sure he’ll get you a doctor or something.” Even as he said that, Sidekick wasn’t sure he would. He shook those thoughts off and finished cleaning the leg and foot. The whole ordeal didn’t take very long, but he was thankful when it was over. Villain didn’t look better, per se, but he did look a bit cleaner. Maybe that was worse, because now his bruises stood out even more against his pallid skin. Sidekick gave him a final rinse with the hose. “Okay, that’s it. All done.” Villain looked glad it was over, as well. His shaking had gotten worse, and his lips were turning purple. Sidekick glanced over at the dish towels he took to dry him off, but they suddenly seemed insufficient. “Give me one sec,” he said. “I’ll be back in a moment.” He snuck back upstairs, sneaking to the master bathroom. From it, he grabbed the fluffiest, biggest towel Hero owned. He probably wouldn’t approve of him using it, but then again, he didn’t tell him not to. Still, Sidekick was glad he made it back downstairs undetected. As he walked up to the cell door, he realised with a shock he’d left it slightly open. He ran the last bit and stormed into the room. Villain was in the same spot he left him. Looked like he hadn’t even moved. Of course, where would he go? Especially with the manacle still on him. Sidekick relaxed. “Okay, I got you a towel. No telling Hero, okay?” He crouched down and draped the towel, which looked more like a blanket, over the man’s shoulders. Villain’s eyes widened, and his long fingers grabbed ahold of the fabric. Sidekick moved a bit closer, rubbing Villain’s hair dry. As the towel came away, he saw the white fabric had become stained with grime. The Villain didn’t move to dry himself off; he just wrapped it tightly around himself. His eyes were closed, but he didn’t look scared for once. Instead, he just looked exhausted. Sidekick saw him rubbing his cheek against the soft material. He leaned forward slightly, before jolting straight again. “Alright, I’ll help you with this bit, too. We’re almost done.” He held Villain’s shoulder to stabilise him and started rubbing and dabbing with the fabric that wasn’t taut from Villain grip. The man’s eyes stayed closed, and he started leaning more and more into Sidekick’s grip. Sidekick shifted so he was sitting instead of crouching, and moved Villain so he rested against his chest. The man didn’t resist and melted into him. Sidekick briefly worried about Hero coming in and seeing the two of them so close, but he didn’t have the heart to push Villain away. He kept rubbing him dry, but stopped when he heard Villain’s breath hitching. His face was pushed against Sidekick’s chest, but he heard his soft hiccups. “Are you crying?” he asked. Villain nodded. That tug in his gut was back again, in full force. Sidekick considered pushing Villain off, considering his chore done and leaving. But that made the feeling worse. Instead, he put his free hand on Villain’s back. “What’re you crying for? Does something hurt?” Villain nearly burrowed himself in his chest, no longer clutching the towel but digging his fingers into the fabric of Sidekick’s shirt. “N-no, I’m, I mean, yes, but that’s not why... I’m, I cry, be-because I’m happy, and I’m tired, and confused, and-” He choked on a sob. “and I’m scared.” Crying openly now, he dug his face into Sidekick’s shirt. Sidekick rubbed his back, shifting slightly so he could hold up the weeping man better. He’d never seen an adult cry like that before, and he felt at a loss for words. “Hey, uhm. Hey, there’s no need for that. Crying never solved nothing.” Before he fully realised what he was doing, he’d started gently rocking side to side. “You’re going to be fine,” he assured. “Hero said you were almost done. Just a bit more, and then you’ll probably go to prison. Then you will be the same terrible, infuriating person you were, okay? I’ll hate you again, and all will be fine.” Villain sniffed. “He-he said, I was done? I'll go to prison?” “I mean, he mentioned something about a show. I don’t what he meant, but I do think this is the final stretch for you.” Villain’s crying died down a little to just a few hitched breaths. Sidekick kept rocking and rubbing his back. It helped him feel a bit better too, for some reason. “P’lease,” mumbled Villain, “Please, can-can I, may, could you s-stay? This is... this is nice.” Sidekick stopped rocking, which caused Villain to tense. It only lasted a second, though, and he resumed. “I mean, sure,” he shrugged.“I got nothing better to do, anyway.” The man was leaning his entire body weight on him, now. It wasn’t a lot. “Thank you,” he got a bit more comfortable.“thank-thank you, Sidekick. Thank you.” “Don’t mention it.” responded Sidekick. After a second, he added: “But seriously, don’t mention it. I think Hero would be upset at both of us.” At the mention of Hero, Villain flinched in Sidekick’s hold. “’M scared,” he murmured. “I know.” said Sidekick. “”M ti-tired. I’m so tired..” Villain’s voice already started trailing off. “It’s okay. I got nowhere to be, we can just sit.” Sidekick stayed by his side, until Villain had fallen into a deep sleep. He felt drained, as well. Still, he quickly got Villain dressed and laid him on his cot. He wanted to leave the towel with him, but he couldn’t afford Hero finding out. When he pulled the fabric away from the sleeping man, his fingers kept clutching it. As he gently pried them off, he saw Villain’s brow twitch in his sleep. He sighed and tucked him in with his own ratty excuse for a blanket. He sprayed the cell until it was at least a bit more clean, and shut the door behind him. He couldn’t tell if he felt better after, or much, much worse.

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moral-turpitudes · 3 years

Text

New Beginnings:

Masterlist | Rules | Peaky Prompts

Trigger Warnings: Swearing, Angst, Fluff, Mentions of Adoption, Slight Descriptions of Drug/Alcohol Abuse.

Word Count: 4,122

Characters: Johnny Dogs x Female!Reader (Polly’s Eldest Daughter)

Requested by: Anon, you can find it here. This was a bit challenging but I hope you like it! :)

Summary: Y/N and Michael Gray get the surprise of a lifetime when their blinder cousin Thomas and his friend Johnny Dogs show up at their doorsteps, but little does Y/N know what’s in store for her regarding the company.

“Is she alive?” Polly asked the local medium who’d been known for telling fortunes and such. The medium’s eyes were dark beneath her jewel-toned veil as she answered the female blinder.

“Your eldest, Y/N, is in London. Go find her and your boy Michael. He’s living on a farm out in the country side.” She said flatly, her voice void of emotion.

“And what about my youngest daughter, Anna?” Polly asked, knowing in her heart that the truth wasn’t always the easiest thing to hear.

“She’s dead.” She said, tightening her grip on Polly’s hand as she shook with emotion, tears streaming down her face as she remembered the little baby girl placed in her arms years ago before her death. Knowing too that her son and eldest daughter were ripped from her arms at such a young age after their drunk of a father died lodged between a boat and a dock in the cut.

“Thank you.” Polly said shakily before leaving. Putting a few shillings down on the table as the woman nodded and watched her leave.

“What’d you expect aye? She tells you what you want to hear Pol’....”Thomas said, as she told him about her meeting with the medium earlier that morning.

“I just needed confirmation is all. God I can’t believe they’ve been out there all these years. You have to help me find them Tommy. Please.” She said, pulling her hands to her mouth nervously as she bit at her nails. Her eyes still tinged red from crying and her makeup smudged slightly.

“I’ll do what I can with the information we have. Until then I think you should take the day off unless you think you can work in the condition you’re in.” He said, looking over the papers from her son Michael’s entry into an orphanage and then glancing at the adoption papers where he’d been named Henry.

“Henry of all names...can you believe it? Disgraceful.” She said.

“Any word on Y/N? She has to be nearing 28 by now. The poor woman will probably faint when she finds out.” She said, feeling herself wanting to close herself off into her apartment as the thought of re-kindling a barely-there relationship loomed over her.

“I’ve found her adoption papers. They kept her name, but she’s in London as far as this goes. This address is where she’ll be.” He said sliding the document towards her and running his index finger over the crinkled paper.

“Alright.” She said, shakily lighting a cigarette.

“Pol’...I’m serious. You need to prepare for this if this all works out alright? Can’t have our best woman down. We still need you.” He said, looking into her glassy eyes. Tears threatening to spill once again.

“I will. I’ll go home right now. But please bring them to me once you get them.” She said. Thomas nodded as he watched her walk out the door quickly. Her nerves rattled as she sped off to her lavish apartment that had been vacant for far too long.

“Johnny?” Thomas said over the phone, the rowdy traveler making it to a payphone to report how their latest burial was going.

“Oi! How are ya Tommy? Just got done burnin’ the old bastard. What’s next?” He asked.

“You’re going to help me get Polly’s children back. She has a son named Michael in his late teens and an older daughter named Y/N who’s 28.” He said quickly, checking his pocket watch.

“Christ....alright.” He said, looking out at the burning pile in the distance.

“It’ll help her make peace Johnny. She needs this for more than just her. For the whole family really.” He said.

“I know I know. If only that poor bastard Gray didn’t die a drunk then none of ya would be in that mess aye?” He said, a long silence lingering over the phone.

“Perhaps.” Thomas said, his mind remembering all the hell their family went through as they grew up. The poverty, the fights, the nights sitting up in fear as their father yelled at their mother, their mother succumbing to her visions and bouts of depression, the feuds with the other families around them, the long nights in the trenches of France, and the whole family business being shoved onto their shoulders with no parental guidance besides their aunt Polly. She being the one saving grace of the whole family.

As Thomas and Johnny drove out to meet Michael, Polly sat at home pacing back and forth as she wondered how the next few hours or even days would go. Knowing once Thomas put his mind to something he always tried to finish it, especially if it involved family.

“I’m here for Henry. His mother wants him home.” Thomas said bluntly to the woman who’d practically raised him.

“My Henry? I have the papers...He’s mine.” She said.

“Aye, and I have the papers too. I’m his cousin. And I know his birth mother would love nothing more than to see him since he was ripped from her arms. Let the man go and meet her. Once he’s done that he can make his decision.” He said, eyeing the woman coldly.

With tears in her eyes, the woman called for Michael to come forward, the fawn-haired young man running over to him.

“Hello Henry. Your mother wants to see you.” He said. Michael’s face evolving into one of confusion.

“But she’s right here? Who are you anyway?” He asked, a sassy tone to his voice that reminded Thomas of Polly.

“I’m your cousin Thomas Shelby. Your birth mother is Polly Gray. Your real name is Michael Gray. Now you can stay here on this little farm or you can leave to meet the woman who’s fought to find you for so many years. Which one will it be?” He asked impatiently, lighting a cigarette.

Michael nervously looked around and pulled his little sister in for a hug, telling her to be good and then giving his adoptive mother a hug. Knowing she was fuming inside.

“I-I’ll ring you alright? I’ve been wondering why I never had pictures here of when I was younger...and...I’ve been wondering why you all look different than me. I-I think it’s time I go find out for myself mum.” He said, giving her one last hug before going off with his blinder cousin and his friend Johnny Dogs.

“Now on to your sister.” Thomas said, driving off towards the busy London area.

---

Your head pounded as you got up. The drinks from the night before doing your head in as a sharp knock sounded at your apartment door. You shrugged on your red laced robe and lit a cigarette as you hastily put your wild locks in a bun, your eyes burning from the sunlight streaming in through the window nearby.

One more sharp knock sounded as you neared the door, making your blood boil slightly.

“Bloody hell. Hold on a moment will ya?” You yelled out, tying your robe around your nude frame. The stranger in your room snoring loudly in the back room of your haphazard apartment.

“What’s all this then? It’s a little early to be soliciting people don’t ya think?” You asked, blowing out a cloud of smoke as you took in the men before you.

One had piercing blue eyes, who had one of the coldest looks you’d seen on a man in a long time. Knowing he’d probably seen more hurt than happiness in his past years of life.

The other two had darker eyes, one of them younger and oddly familiar as you thought about your own facial structure. You had the same eyes. Eyes that never matched your adoptive parents. Eyes that the kids in the orphanage always picked on for being too brown in color when theirs were reminiscent of the sea and the sky and all the green earth in between.

The seemingly oldest of them looked on from the distance. His cigar dangling from his lips as his dark eyes scanned you up and down. He had a rough look to him, like he’s seen more sun than anyone here. That he’d lived everywhere and nowhere at the same time.

“Who are you all and why are you hogging my doorstep?” You asked.

“We don’t have a lot of time, but long story short, I’m your cousin Thomas Shelby. And this young man here is your brother Michael Gray. We only just found him. Your mother...Polly Gray...has been looking for you all these years.” He said bluntly.

“What? I thought she was dead or something. God knows father was.” You said, remembering the drunken man vaguely as well as a beautiful dark haired woman you were sure to have gotten your good looks from.

“You remember them?” Michael asked, a bit envious that his newfound sister was able to remember such a thing.

“Mhmm. Well...when do we meet her aye? I have some business to take care of.” You said, fiddling with your hands as Johnny continued to stare.

“Go do what you need to. We’ll wait out here.” He said.

“Who’s the rough looking fellow? A bit quiet aye?” You asked, pointing to Johnny.

He cleared his throat and took his cap off. His bright smile catching your eye as you blew smoke out from your lips.

“Sorry. I’m Johnny. Johnny Dogs. Traveler and helper of the Shelby family and such. Nice to meet you Y/N. Heard lots of good things ‘bout ya.” He said.

“Oh really? Like what? That I’m a drunk like me father? That I’m a whore?” She asked with a smirk, her laugh sending Johnny’s heart over the edge.

“Gods no. That you’re beautiful actually. Polly said so herself. She remembers ya well.” He said with a small smile that was soon extinguished by a cold glance from Thomas.

“Right....well I’ll be out in a moment.” You said with a slight smile, walking back inside and throwing your best clothes on and hurriedly doing your makeup.

“Well hello there love, who are you getting ready for this morning?” The man lying on your bed half naked murmured as you put on the last of your makeup.

“Get out.” You said, pulling your coat over yourself as you grabbed your purse.

“What? After last night you want me to leave?” He asked.

“What is this? A bed and breakfast? I said get the fuck out of me house!” You yelled, not even bothering to remember the lads name as you followed him down the hall, his pants put on haphazardly as he ran shirtless out the door.

“You’ll pay for this!” He yelled, causing the three men to look on curiously.

“Actually you did sir, thanks for the tip love!” You yelled.

“Fucking asshole.” You added under your breath.

“Who was that?” Michael asked as you got in their car.

“Just a joyride love. Don’t worry about it.” You said, not bothering to filter yourself as Thomas smirked slightly. You we’re definitely Polly’s daughter. There was no doubt about it.

As you all neared Polly’s house you and Michael exchanged a nervous look with each other, knowing you might as well have forgotten her since it’s been so long. Your adoptive parents never mentioning her unless you started acting up. But the vague memories you did have always swirled around in your mind.

“Here we are. She said you could stay there with her if that’s something you both want. But I’ll let you both go on.” Thomas said, helping you both up to the apartment.

You knocked hard on the door, your hands shaking as you looked to the ground. You hoped for this day for years but you never thought it would happen so soon.

“Do ya want me to help em’ wit their bags Tom?” Johnny whispered from the car as he watched the woman standing nervously with her brother.

“No. Just stay in the car.” He said, bringing the rest of the bags up to them as Polly opened the door.

��My god...” she said, her hair a bit disheveled as she adjusted her dress and shawl around her shoulders.

“Mum? H-hi. Um....it’s me...Y/N...and Michael.” You said with a small smile on your face.

She didn’t say anything, instead just rushing forward and enveloping you both in a hug as Thomas stood by awkwardly.

“Thank you. Tommy my god thank you.” She said, giving him a short hug as well as you and Michael made your way inside the lavish apartment.

“Just make sure you’re all at the office early tomorrow alright? We’ll have a family meeting.” He said, a small smile on his face that hadn’t been there in ages.

“We will.” Polly said, waving him and Johnny off as she closed the door behind her.

“Now Michael...I know you don’t know me very well. But I want you to know I’m here for you always alright? You too Y/N. I can’t believe I have you back.” She said giving you each a tight hug as you wiped tears from your eyes.

As the night went on you all both gradually settled in, Polly agreeing to let you go to your apartment when you wanted since you were of age. But for now you accepted your place here, wanting to get to know the woman you’ve searched for all your life.

“Michael...it’s alright if I call you that right?” She asked hesitantly.

“Mhmm. I-I guess it’s growing on me. Never felt much like a Henry.” He said, unpacking his things.

“Right, well I’ll leave you two for the night. I’ll be expecting you both up early for Tommy’s meeting tomorrow. Welcome to the family.” She said, her mind racing as she left the room. Her heart slowly mending back together after being torn to pieces so many years ago.

---

At the shop the next morning, Michael and you both walked in a bit on edge, having gotten the rundown from Polly about what the business entailed on the way there. The workers around you eyeing you up as you lit a cigarette and walked past them in your heels and red overcoat. Michael looking around as well but with a smug smile on his face as he made acquaintances with the younger blinders rather quickly.

“Alright so the new members of the family as you lot can see are Y/N and Michael Gray. They’ve both confirmed they preferred their natural names so that’s what you’ll all call them. The papers and everything else are being sorted to give Polly any parental rights, and Michael...I have a proposition for you.” He said eyeing the young man who had a tough-yet laid back demeanor about him. The innocence of his past life slowly fading the longer he stayed in Birmingham.

“Alright. What is it Tommy?” He asked, smoking a cigarette carefully since he’d only done so once before at college.

“You’re going with us to the races. After we see what you’re made of, I’ll consider you for an accounting position.” He said.

“Sounds good to me.” He said swallowing hard and looking towards his mother.

“It doesn’t bloody sound good to me. I’ve just gotten my children back and you want to put them through some peaky initiation?” Polly snapped at her nephew. Ada, Arthur, John, and Finn looking at you and your brother with curious eyes during the awkward silence that ensued.

“It’s the only way Pol’ he’ll be fine.” Thomas said flatly, his voice still void of emotion.

“What will I be doing? I can’t stay cooped up here all day.” You said, blowing a cloud of smoke from your lips as you stared down your blue eyed devil of a cousin.

“Well, you could work here with the rest of us or you could work with the Lee’s and the rest down at their stop. Think of it as being a liaison for us.” He said.

You looked around at the dark and cramped place, your mothers familiar eyes knowing what you’d pick. You were an adult and had been on your own for many years, knowing full well how to handle yourself for the most part and besides, if you got to get out in the open air for a while it wouldn’t be half bad.

“I can do that. Just tell me how to get there and I’ll go.” You said. Thomas handing you a map as he grabbed his car keys.

“You can still stay at the house you know.” Polly said as you gathered your things.

“I know mum. I’ll be back, it’s just work. Don’t worry.” You said giving her a hug and Michael a fake punch on the shoulder as you waltzed out the door.

“It’s better if I go with you. You don’t know them.” Thomas said, opening the door for you.

“....alright. Do I need to do anything before we go?” You asked.

“Just please tell me you know how to shoot a gun.” He said, starting the car.

“Just point and shoot right? I remember one thing before dad died and that was going hunting with him in the woods. Just that once.” You said.

“That should be good enough. Take this.” He said, handing you a small handgun from his jacket.

“Do I have to kill anyone?” You asked, the thought making a shiver run down your spine slightly.

“Only if they come after ya or the family.” He said.

You nodded your head silently as you understood. You’d heard of the blinders while being in London, and from Polly’s rundown before getting to the shop, but you’d never thought you’d be related to them in such a way. But maybe this was the start you’d needed. At least now you weren’t making a living off cleaning houses and singing in taverns.

“Here we are.” He said after a long while of silence. Your eyes adjusting to the bright sunlight that spread across the vacant land where a slew of vardo’s were parked. Bonfires lit near them as they sat around the flames. Various animals roasting on a spit as music played in the distance.

“This is where I’ll be?” You asked, not seeing an actual brick and mortar house in sight. But remembering bits and pieces of the old vardo you had grew up briefly in with your mum. Her late teenaged self doing the best she could to care for the three of you young children.

“Mhm.” He mumbled as he led you through the tall grass to the people you’d be spending most of your working days around.

“There they are! What a sight! How are ya Tom?” Johnny asked rather loudly, a smile dancing across his face as he greeted you with a quick kiss to your hand.

“Good. Y/N here is going to be staying every few days or so. She’s the new liaison between the families here. Teach her what ya know and show her where she can call from. She’ll be reporting to me about anything going on that may need our attention. Think of it as security aye?” He said, eyeing Johnny as he stared slightly at the gorgeous woman.

“Will do, will do. Say let’s get you shown around, we have a place for ya all set up.” He said, taking your hand in his which made you smile. A flush of red hitting your cheeks as you looked on at your new place of work.

“Don’t do anything stupid Johnny.” Thomas said threateningly, knowing he could sense that Johnny had some feelings for his cousin.

“No worries Tom.” He said, tipping his cap to him as he led you to a vacant vardo.

“So what’s a woman as beautiful as you doin’ round these parts anyway? Did Polly drive ya off already?” He asked, setting your luggage down.

“No. I volunteered to come out here. Didn’t wanna be cooped up in that old dusty building.” You said, brushing a stray hair behind your ear.

“Well you’re in luck, darlin’. No dusty buildings here. Just a few snakes though.” He said as you jumped slightly, eyes making a mad-dash to the ground.

“I’m just messing with ya, doll.” He said, leaning up against the back steps.

“Is it hard being out here all the time? I know a few bars in London we could go to sometime. Get ya out for bit.” You said looking into his brown eyes that glowed almost golden in the bright afternoon sun.

“Not as hard when we have pretty women such as yourself here. Say...I’ll take ya up on that offer. How ‘bout later this week after we show ya the ropes?” He asked.

“Sounds good.” You said, smiling as you helped him carry things to the pond nearby. Children running around and skipping stones as you both made small talk while washing various clothes.

“How long do you all stay out here? It’s beautiful.” You said after a while of learning how to do various chores.

“Oh about a month or so. Never too long in one place in case the coppers come by bootin’ us out. We belong to ourselves, not to them. The sooner you learn that the better off you’ll be here aye?” He said, a hint of warning in his voice.

“Did someone tip you off one day? I’d never do that. I’m just working for Tommy and me mum.” You said, never wanting to come between anyone’s business.

“Yeah. Lost a few people a couple years back. Wasn’t good. But that’s all done now. New beginnings aye Y/N?” He said raising his flask to your glass of whiskey as you all sat near the pond.

“To new beginnings.” You said, staring off into the sky as you realized you’d be here more often than you’d thought.

---

The next few weeks seemed to fly by as you got used to living half there and half at Polly’s place. It was a hard decision but one you felt deep down needed to be made as you sold your apartment in London to be closer to your mum and Michael. Turns out he wasn’t as good and innocent as he’d claimed to be, gradually going on business with the boys and coming back high as a kite on cocaine. It was something even you hadn’t done in a long while, and something you swore one night to never do again after a bad spill landed you in the doctors. So it was safe to say your hard partying days were over, except for when it came to Johnny.

Over the course of the few weeks you’d been working together and updating Tommy on the business there, you grew closer and developed feelings for the rowdy traveler. Johnny’s smile and snarky remarks always bringing a wide grin to your face when you’d hear him with the lads or when you’d both go off drinking with people at the camp. But unfortunately, good things seemed to come to an end once the month was up, seeing as Tommy visited at a bad time one night and caught the two of you together. You’d been slightly embarrassed, but didn’t think he had it in him to ruin a good thing. But ruining things was Tommy’s specialty.

The night was abruptly ended when he dragged a naked Johnny away from you and threatened to terminate both of your positions with the company if things continued. But you were stubborn and strong willed just like your mother, and kept seeing him anyways even if it meant you were out of the company.

“I don’t see why I can’t love one man Pol’ Tommy’s gone and probably fucked every woman in town! He’ll he has enough children by various women to worry about already and here he is worrying about what I do with my life and my time?” You yelled as you packed your things away. You’d discussed moving out there with Johnny to spare the family drama. Thomas could tell you liked it out there and he had to admit, you gave him good information on people you’d come across, even if it was by letter or by pay phone more often than in person. And Polly knew you were like her, wanting to be free to do whatever you pleased and as much as it pained her to see you leave for a life on the road, she loved that you were the only one who kept that spirit alive. The only one who decided to throw away the silver spoon you’d been fed with half your life, to live for yourself and for a man that made you happy, even if he worked for the blue eyed devil himself.

Johnny Dogs Tag List:

@flysafepapi, @gaytommyshelby, @ta-ka-shi-ma

If you’d like to be added/removed just send me an ask/message! :)

#katiesanons #peaky blinders #peaky blinders imagines #peaky blinders oneshots #peaky blinders fanfic #johnny dogs #johnny dogs x reader #johnny dogs x y/n #johnny dogs x female!reader #katiesrequests

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whumpasaurus101 · 3 years

Text

19th April, Plant Day!

I cannot tell you how tempted I was to write abt fungi but I didn’t want @brutal-nemesis to kill me :) so I can safely say that there is no fungi do not worry :D

Cw: plant whump / ‘stabbing’ sort of / deep cuts / caretaking after / fluff / angst / my gaey boys not having a good time tbh / Alicia being a bitch as usual /

Asher wasn’t happy. He was in Alicia’s house and Jack was right at her feet, kneeling. She raked her hands through his hair. Aaher looked at her in disgust from where he knelt, far away from them both. Why did Rodger have to leave him with this bitch? He would have prefered anyone, anyone over her. Jesus, he’d rather stick a fork in his own fucking eye than be here.

“Anyways,” Alicia sighed, “I want to go to the garden centre to revamp this house and whatnot and the two of you can come if you behave, Asher, I’m looking straight at you. Think of all the fun you could have if you don't throw a fucking tantrum, huh? I’ll even let you two go off for a bit if you're good. But keep in mind, I throw knives like a fucking champ so if one of you decides to try and run, you’ll get a knife in your fucking neck, understood?”

The garden centre was huge, Asher’s eyes lit up as he saw the building. And then there were people, normal people, not sick psychos! Couples, families, you name it! A sudden yank ripped Asher from his thoughts as Alicia pulled back on his top. He stumbled back and Alicia spoke in his ear, “Listen up big boy, you make one single sound to any other people and I will fucking kill you, got it?” Asher quickly nodded, scared to speak.

She forced a smile, “Good, now, let’s not waste any time!” The three walked into the centre, Asher standing in between the pair as he was least trusted. Alicia had her handbag rested against her forearm as she strode in.

There were plants everywhere. Some crawled up the wall, some hung from the ceiling and some were neatly potted and shelved. Asher, completely lost in his thoughts, didn't realise how fast he was walking until Alicia yanked him back, “What the fuck did I just tell you?!” Asher lowered his head, “Sorry.”

Both Jack and Asher followed Alicia obediently as she strolled around the store. Eventually, she had had enough. “Alright, alright! You're starting to piss me off! Just- just- ugh, just go -and stick together. But I swear that if either one of you tries something funny, I will slit both of your throats. Asher looked to Jack who smiled at him. He followed him to the outside area as they held hands in front of them so Alicia couldn't see.

Jack pulled Asher into a corner that was hidden by trees and kissed him gently, wrapping his arms around his waist. Asher chuckled, “Nothing funny, huh?” Jack smiled, “Fine, we can just stop you know, look at these… trees?” Asher chortled, snorting slightly at the end. He traced his hand against Jack’s cheek and jaw, rubbing it slightly, feeling the short stubble.

He brought Jack’s face closer and pecked him on the nose. Jack brought Asher’s hips closer, they kissed again as Jack raked his hands through Asher’s hazelnut hair. “What. the. Fuck?” They both pulled away with a jolt.

Alicia stood there, gobsmacked, “I-you.” She couldn’t form any other words than, “What the fuck.” Asher couldn’t breathe, “Pl-please don’t tell Rodger!! Please!!” That’s when Alicia smiled and chuckled, looking at Jack, “So you’re into Asher, huh? You like the ‘bad boys’?” Jack gulped, blinking fast, “Alicia, please! I-”

Alicia slapped him hard across the face, “I asked you a fucking question!” Jack whimpered. Asher looked in shock, finding himself frozen in shock. “Yes! Okay! I love him, I mean, what is there not to love about him? He’s perfect! He’s brave and he’s handsome. He’s there for me when I need him and he makes me happy every fucking day!”

Asher felt his cheeks flush a deep red. Alicia looked at him blankly, “How sweet. But you know this is simply just not allowed.” The two boys gulped. “Alicia plea-”

“Shut up!!” Asher flinched as she took a step towards him, caressing her sharp nails scraping against his cheek, “Now, now Asher, you know he’s way out of your league!” She cackled, “I mean, what’s the fucking age gap?” Asher clenched his jaw. Her thumb’s nail slightly pressing into his cheek as he let out a yelp.

“Alicia,” Jack raised his voice. Alicia turned to him, nails still digging into Asher’s skin. “Please, he didn’t-”

“You know what?” Alicia sneered, “I don’t think you understand. You are mine and Asher is Rodger’s. You are not permitted to even touch him.” Her grip tightened as blood now ran from Asher’s cut.

“I know, I know, Alicia, please, don’t do this, it was all my fault! I started this! He still doesn’t understand the rules!” Alicia sighed, yanking her hand away, making the cut bigger. “No, he doesn’t, but he will.”

Asher had no clue what she meant until an hour later when he was tied to a chair in Alicia’s kitchen. Alicia circled him, shopping bag in hand. “Have you ever heard of a honey locust?” Asher just glared at her in response, dried blood stuck to his cheek form earlier. “No?” She hummed, taking out what looked like branches of a tree. “Hmmm, well, I was going to give these to Rodger to use them on you, but I guess I can just get more and use these bad boys now!!”

Jack pulled at his cuffs which kept his hands right at the fridge’s handle, “Alicia I-“

“SHUT UP!!!!” Both boys flinched at how loud Alicia was. “Stop sticking up for your bitch all the time! You are mine and he is Rodger’s. And the bast way for you to understand things is to hurt people that you love.”

And with that, she got a thorn and quickly moved it down Asher’s collarbone, leaving a dark red line which blood fell from. Asher let out a howl of pain. His restraints left him unable to double over and protect himself.

Alicia snickered, “Oof, that’s a deep one. Oops?” She did the same thing on the exact another side. This continued until deep gashes covered his abdomen.

When she got bored, she picked up the thorns one by one, piling them into her hand. She dropped the branch and grinned at Jack. She approached a trembling Asher and traced one of the sharp thorns all across and down Asher’s arm, causing goosebumps to rise on his skin.

Without warning, she quickly stabbed a thorn straight into his arm. He yelled, he couldn’t take all of this pain. “P-please, no more! I- AGH!” He was interrupted when she poked another one right under the previous thorn. He felt his vision starting to blur.

Alicia, noticing he was starting to blackout, decided it was enough, for now. “Oh what now? No ‘smart comments’? You see, after a while, I do start to miss them. Its quite satisfying to be honest! You know, Rodger being unable to control his mutt while Jack just sits right at my side like a good bitch.”

Asher saw Jack flinch through his blurred vision. Jack had never heard Alicia call him that. It was always Rodger who did, never Alicia. Did she prefer Asher? No, no, she couldn’t! She loved Jack… right? He looked to the two, Alicia was running a hand through Asher’s hair with a smile as the other’s head lolled to the side as he slowly drifted out of it.

---

Jack was allowed to clean Asher’s wounds. He had a tweezers and was trying to pluck the thorns out from Asher’s delicate skin. Asher let out painful moans as he rocked back and forward. Jack blinked away his tears, “Ash- Asher please, I need you to stay still.” Asher did but once the tweezers were back on the last thorn, he flinched. Jack rolled his eyes, “ASHER! I NEED YOU TO FUCKING-” He froze the minute Asher’ tear-stained face and puffy eyes turned to him. He looked as if he was about to absolutely ball crying.

“Asher, oh my god, Asher, I am so sorry!” Asher blinked and the tears followed. They streamed down his cheeks as his chest rose and fell fast. He whimpered and bit his lip to stop himself from sobbing. “Asher, please I- I didn’t mean to! I’m so sorry!!”

Asher sniffed and blinked rapidly, “ ‘s alright, y-you didnt m-mean to.” Jack’s heart felt heavy but he had to keep cleaning the wounds before Alicia would come in and make some snarky comments. “This is going to sting- wait, I might have some pain killer I can give you, mkay?”

Asher nodded weakly. “Alright, give me a second.” He got up out of the empty bath they sat in and walked to the bathroom cabinet. He scanned through the shelves and his eyes landed on one of the orange containers.

He opened it up and poured two pills into his palm. He then got a glass and filled it with water, knowing the water from the bathroom probably wasn’t the best but it was better to get rid of all of the pain Asher was in already.

He handed Asher the pills and glass. Asher looked at him, waiting for a nod of approval before putting the pills in his mouth and washing them down with the water. “Th-thank you” His voice was hoarse. Jack wiped tears of his own and sat back behind Asher.

Asher’s flinches were less violent. Jack smiled, knowing that his love was in less pain. No- no, not his. Rodger’s. The heaviness settled in his heart once more. Surely there was some way of keeping Asher. Keeping? What the hell was wrong with him?! Maybe he didn’t deserve Asher. Maybe it was for the best.

He looked down as he felt Asher’s back press against him. He was asleep. His adorable face looked so peaceful. His eyes were closed and he wasn’t in pain. His angry face was relaxed and the usual crease in his eyebrows was gone.

Jack gently traced his cheek with his finger. His scar had been reopened and looked painful. After a few moments of peace, Alicia burst through the door, “Jesus fucking Christ, you cant keep your hands off him, can you? After what he went through because of you!” Jack’s head snapped up to her, “Alicia, please, let him sleep, he never sleeps! Please, I’ll do anything!” Alicia fake smiled at him for a moment before shoving her arms under Asher’s arms and dragging him out of the bathtub. Asher let out a yell of shock as he was brought out of his sweet peaceful dreams back to this phscho bitch.

“Alicia, leave him, alone, please!” Alicia just giggled in excitement, “No way, this is a fun thing to play with. You two think you're so in love. But none of you knows what love is!” Asher hung his head in shame and embarrassment. Jack noticed, he knew that Asher had absolutely no memories of his childhood, he didn't know what love was. Jack felt terrible.

Alicia looked between the pair with a shit-eating grin, “Well, you guys must be tired! Asher, you can sleep on the floor in the kitchen. Jack, you're sleeping in with me!” Jack knew better than to refuse. Asher was dragged out of the room and Jack was left sitting in the bathtub, waiting for Alicia to come and show him who he really belonged to.

—-

Taglist:

@as-a-matter-of-whump @yesthisiswhump @appy-polly-loggies @jordanstrophe @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @likeit-or-whumpit @milk-carton-offical

#whump #whump story #plant whump #plant day #I’m sorry for this #heh #the Gaey boys #are not having a good time I’ll be honest #Asher #jack #Alicia #plants #no fungi #:)#not this time #asher #whump drabble #drabble

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tothemeadow · 4 years

Text

kinktober: Sanemi’s a naughty brat who needs to be put in his place

Day 1: handcuffs / punishment / begging

warnings: NSFW, degradation, dry humping, handjobs, oral sex, cum swallowing

words: 1,587

(a/n): art is not mine

“Pathetic little brat.”

Sanemi’s blood spikes as you step around him, your shiny shoes glistening in the dim light. He swallows the lump in his throat.

The handcuffs dig into his wrist a bit too much for his liking, his skin turning raw and sore. However, he refuses to utter a single word. It’d be against your orders, after all. The rough fabric of the rug rubs his knees; it burns, the fine bristles marking his skin, but he keeps silent. It’s all for you. Everything is for you.

You stop directly before him, a sneer painted on your face. You drop to a crouch, the fabric of your slacks scrunching around your thighs. It takes every ounce of his willpower to not stare directly at it. Instead, Sanemi keeps his eyes trained on the floor.

“Look at me,” you order. Your voice carries that same husky sound, absolutely sweet to Sanemi’s ears and other regions. He does as he’s told and brings his eyes up to meet yours. “You know what you did, don’t you?” You lightly smack the side of his face. “Speak.”

Immediately, Sanemi’s lips pull back in a snarl. “And handcuffing me is going to make things better? Heh. You fucking wish.”

Your hand clamps around his face, effectively squishing his cheeks and pursing his lips out. “It’s this damn mouth of yours,” you mutter. You don’t yell, but Sanemi knows all too well that you’re seething. “Always backtalking me, cursing whenever you feel like. It upsets me, you know?”

Sanemi pulls at the handcuffs pulling his wrists together. The both of you know he can easily break his way out, but where’s the fun in that? Sanemi enjoys his punishments as much as you enjoy dealing them out. His eyes narrow into a glare.

His chest huffs with each heavy breath, the beads of sweat sticking to his skin glowing in the light. He feels like he can’t properly breathe. You release his cheeks, then, and click your tongue. “Goddamn brat.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Sanemi purrs, a wicked smirk spreading on his face. He grunts when you grab a fistful of his hair and give it a sharp tug.

Leaning in, your lips brush against the outer shell of his ear. “That’s because it is, brat. I feel like I should tie you to the bed and shove a vibrator up your ass.”

Sanemi shudders beneath you.

You continue. “Bad boy. You act like a naughty little brat just for my attention, don’t you? It pisses me off.”

“Like you don’t like showering me with affection and shit,” Sanemi snaps. He jerks his head to the side, his nose brushing against yours. You can feel his hot breath against your face. “Personally, I think you like it when I act like a brat. Or am I wrong?”

“There you go again, running your mouth,” you mutter, glancing down at his lips. You could give in and give him what he wants, but that’s not how things play out here. Bad boys get punished for their behavior, and Sanemi’s is long past due.

Sanemi scoffs as you pull away and bring yourself to a stand. Kicking your foot out, you press right up against the prominent bulge in his pants. Sanemi groans under the pressure, his hips instinctually bucking into your touch, seeking out that delicious friction. And you let him do so – he gradually begins to buck wildly, increasing his pace, all the while his face scrunched in pleasure. What a fool. You know for a fact that he’s trying to not moan out loud.

“What, are you ashamed that you’re getting off to my foot? I’m not even touching you, baby boy.” Sanemi growls at the name you address with, but his hips stutter. Hell, you can even see the patch of precum gathering in the front of his pants. You press your foot down harder.

“Fuck,” Sanemi moans, his head falling forward.

“What?” you hum. A devilish smile blooms on your face. “You like that? Such a little bitch for pain, huh?”

“Fuck you,” Sanemi stutters. He groans when you pull your foot away. His chest heaves, a delightful blush creeping all the way up his neck and face. You lick your lips at the sight.

“You wanna cum, baby? Say you’re sorry and I might just help you.”

“Hell no.” Sanemi furiously shakes his head. Seriously, his pride is starting to get rather annoying. “I don’t have anything to apologize for.”

And, as if to piss you off even further, he quickly shuffles around, shifting onto his stomach. The audacity of this guy – his hips jerk against the rug, that wicked smirk of his returning. Anger swirls inside your tummy, grasps onto your heart.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” you snap. Crouching down once more, you dig your fingers into his hair and yank his head up. “Humping the floor like some filthy mutt? God, you’re so pathetic.”

You’re met with very little struggle as you force him onto his back. Forcing his pants down, you rip them off from his ankles and toss them somewhere behind you. The front of his boxer briefs is so fucking wet that you can’t hold back your snicker. You quickly rid him of the last article of clothing, leaving him completely naked. Arousal pangs at your insides at the sight of his flushed, sweaty body, the angry red head of his cock as it bobs over his stomach.

“Like what you see?” Sanemi mocks.

“Shut the fuck up,” you tell him.

Grabbing onto his cock, you work him at a furious pace; the amount of precum oozing from the tip is more than enough for an easy slide, the wet sounds of his cock fucking into your fist resonating throughout the room. Sanemi pants, his back arching and chest rising towards the ceiling. His dusty nipples are delightfully red and swollen; you grin at his state, knowing he isn’t going to last very long.

“Oh my fuck-“ he curses. “Fuck, that’s so good.”

Enough.

He promptly whines at the loss of contact, his abdomen rippling with want. He looks at you wildly, the whites of his eyes glowing in the dim light. “Why the fuck did you stop?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” you start slowly, your hand clenching onto his muscular thigh. “Maybe it’s because you’re acting like a damn bitch in heat. Where’s my apology, huh?”

Sanemi’s teeth bite down on his bottom lip. You can see the battle in his eyes; he’s debating whether he should continue putting up his pathetic façade or should just give in. He swallows thickly.

Bingo.

“I’m sorry,” he grumbles.

Your nails dig into the flesh of his thigh, making him wince. Another bead of precum swells to the head of his cock. “What was that?”

“I’m sorry,” he says again, although through grit teeth this time. “Would you please make me cum? It feels so fucking good.”

You smirk. “Now, was that so hard?”

Angry tears prick the corners of Sanemi’s eyes. “Fucking Christ-“ He abruptly cuts himself with a loud groan when you duck down and swiftly take the head of his cock in your mouth.

You waste no time; hollowing your cheeks, you suck hard at the bulbous head, flick your tongue at the weeping slit. His cock tastes heady, the heavy weight pressing against your tongue as you lower your mouth on him. His breath catches in his chest and a prominent thunk tells you that he threw his head back.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck! Please, give me more! Your mouth is so fucking hot, oh my god!”

Now, since he asked so nicely, you decide to give in to his pleas. You take his cock further into your mouth, holding your breath as the head reaches your throat. Heat rushes down south as he cries out in pleasure when you swallow around him. Oh, such a lovely baby boy when he’s compliant. You’re absolutely going to wreck him.

You hold his hips down as you continue to suck on him. Pulling back, you lap at the glans, one of your hands reaching down and pumping at the rest of his spit-covered cock. Sanemi keens beneath you, mixtures of your name and curse words filling your ears. Releasing his cock, you quickly duck down, your mouth latching onto one of his balls.

“Fucking shit,” Sanemi hisses. “I’m gonna cum, shit, please keep going.”

You replace your mouth with your hand as you take his cock back into your mouth. You slip the whole way down, a steady stream of air escaping your nostrils. You fight back against your gag reflex as you press your nose into his neatly trimmed pubes. Glancing up, you catch him staring straight at you.

“Oh my god, (y/n)-“ Your name quickly turns into a husky, drawn out moan as his cum shoots straight down your throat. You milk him for what he’s got, fondling his balls and swallowing every single drop of his cum. A good baby only deserves as such, doesn’t he?

When you finally pull off of cock, strings of spit and cum stick to your swollen lips. Sanemi trembles from the force of his orgasm, his face an entirely new shade of red. Licking your lips, you quickly discard your shirt and begin to work at removing your pants.

“It’s my turn, baby boy. Can you do that for me?”

Sanemi eagerly nods his head yes.

#kny #kimetsu no yaiba #demon slayer #kny x reader #kimetsu no yaiba x reader #demon slayer x reader #shinazugawa sanemi #shinazugawa sanemi x reader #kny sanemi #sanemi shinazugawa #sanemi shinazugawa x reader #kinktober #kinktober 2020 #tothemeadow's kinktober

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tobi-momo · 3 years

Text

hanahaki

Pairing: Kirishima x GN!Reader

Warnings: Hanahaki disease, blood, throwing up, choking, gagging, the whole jist.

a/n: this was super fun to make! requests are open! you can also just talk to me uwu

Myth. It's a myth. It isn't real. The petals and flowers falling from your mouth aren't real. The thorns scratching your throat and the blood spilling from your lips aren't real. It's all a myth. Then why does it feel like your heart gets ripped out of your chest each time? It was so hard not being able to tell him, not being able to seek out the comfort you needed. You just wanted him to be happy. But it hurt so badly that you couldn't be the one he was happy with. You couldn't help but feel that pain every time you crouched over the toilet, clutching the seat as if your life depended on it while you cough and gag, emptying your agony. You had come to terms that you were never going to be with him. He was your best friend, and he had someone who could make him happy. Someone that wasn't you. But as the petals make their way up your throat, choking you, making you claw at your neck as if it was an itch, you couldn't help but feel...misery. It had become a normal thing for you to ditch him to take your trip to the restroom, as you would never admit to him that you were feeling like this. Interactions between you two would be short; you would always find an excuse to leave before you completely embarrassed yourself in front of him. He was spending more time with his girlfriend, Sayaka. They had met a couple months ago at a class trip 1-A was taking as a short and sweet vacation to relieve stress. And it did, for the most part. You and Kirishima were stuck at the hip, having sleepovers and little parties together even without the rest of your friends with you two. That was, until he met Sayaka at the mall you and the rest of the class went to for the process of blowing off steam. Ever since then he'd stopped doing everything with you, and started doing everything with her. She was your replacement. No, she was better than your replacement. He finally found someone he could be happy with, and here you are, throwing your guts up and more because you were stupid and fell in love. Even when your stomach, lungs and throat were drained, when you had nothing left to give, you tended to gag a couple extra times after; the bits of flower, irritating the back of your mouth. How the fuck did you end up here? ._._._._._._._._._._._._._._. The next day you were just as exhausted and dead inside as you were yesterday. Everyday passed with you thinking about your lost love with Kirishima. You were drained. You were weary, empty. Your skin had lost a lot of color these past few weeks, and you started to slump over when walking. Everyone around you could tell something was wrong, but no one seemed to press when you said you were fine. Even Kirishima had noticed. He was worried, to say the least, and he needed to know what was going on before you had killed yourself. He approached you as class ended with his hand scratching the back of his neck, nervous. For a short second your eyes had sparkled; you loved it when he was nervous, he always looked so cute- but you knew what he was going to ask, and you couldn't handle it. Emotionally and physically. "Hey, y/n," he chuckled dryly, obviously trying to cover up the awkwardness, "can we talk?" "Oh, uh, sure," you answer; throat dry and scratchy. You both head out of the classroom together while you mostly hope to whatever god is out there that they won't let you break in front of him. "What was it you wanted to talk about?" "Oh, just that you seem a little down lately. I wanted to know what's wrong, since you're one of my best friends, ya' know?" One of my best friends. "Oh, I'm fine, Eijirou. No need to worry." His eyes changed at your statement. He had a feeling you were lying to him, and he hated that. He couldn't help that he couldn't be with you as much anymore, he had someone else. But he also couldn't help that his closeness to you was a lot different than his closeness to others. He didn't have the same connection with Sayaka or Bakugou or Kaminari like he did with you. But you didn't know that. You thought he was forgetting about you, leaving you behind. It was like you were reaching out to him, but then he faded away at your touch. "Are you sure? I mean, I know I haven't been hanging out with you a lot recently because of my relationship with Sayaka, but I want you to know that I still care for you just as much as I did before. Nothing has changed." You knew he was being sincere with his words, but you couldn't help but doubt him while the stabbing pain in your chest was forming. Shit. You needed to get out of there soon or else- you didn't want to think about what might happen. You gently push Kirishima out of the way before you realize you are already past the bathrooms. Would you even have time to lock your door before your body betrays you and destroys itself? You didn't know, but at this point, you didn't care as you rush to your room, trying your best to lock the door, only half-succeeding, and pulling out the bucket you kept by your bed. The bucket was small, but big enough for you to stuff your head in while you coughed up your tragic love story. You had got it a couple weeks after this whole...thing...started. So having it there when you're in a hurry was really convenient. You had almost collapsed down from crouching so fast and the bucket barely tipped over from your aggression. You were a mess, for Christ's sake. How could you let it get this far? Trying to pull your hair out of the way, you could feel the thorns coming up through your throat, abrading your esophagus and climbing through the back of you mouth and leaving for the bottom of the bucket. Flower petals and leaves falling out of your mouth; you gagging and attempting to catch your breath and not choke on your blood. You didn't even hear Kirishima pounding on the door, yelling your name before he yanks the door open with a panic-y yelp as he saw you hunched over, throwing your brains up. His eyes widened at your figure. Were you sick? You would've told him, right? He rushes to your side, careful not to scare or worry you. So this is why you've been so fatigued all the time? You've just been sick? You could've told him, he would've helped you go through it. Hell, you wouldn't be sick anymore if you were getting help from him. So now he just had to be here for you, while you literally spill your guts out. He gathers your hair from around the bucket with his hands, rubbing your back and tugging your hair up to the back of your head. Wait- was that blood? His face of worry immediately changes to panic; he doesn't know what to do as he sees blood spill from your lips. What the hell was going on? As soon as that question pops up in his head, a petal fell from the brim of your mouth. Holy shit. No way. No fucking way. "Y/n? Y/n! Are you okay? What's going on? Is this what I think it is?" You couldn't tell him, could you? Could you tell him that you were hopelessly in love with a man already in a relationship with another woman? Could you tell him that you had been in love with him for a long, long time? You couldn't do that to him. You couldn't do that to your relationship. No. You just couldn't. You grab your throat in effort to stop the thorns from objecting your airway. You cough it up, watching the long stem of a flower that was long gone slide out of your mouth, and into the bucket that had saved you cleaning hours. Kirishima watched as tears streamed down your face unwillingly; he was absolutely distraught. How could he be this fucking clueless? How could he not see it sooner that you were hurting. Hurting more than he thought you were. "Y/n, it's going to be okay! I'll help you! Whoever it is!" He practically shouts at you when one of your hands come up from your neck to his chest, grasping his shirt. Fuck it, you couldn't keep it in anymore. You needed him to know. You needed him to realize that you loved him more than anything ever in this world, and you weren't going to stop. And apparently, he knew what you mean. Hearing your choked sobs as soon as the last little bits of flower left your lips you kept looking down, embarrassed and ashamed as all hell. "I," you cough, throat dry and raspy, "I'm so-sorry." "Sshh, it's okay, don't talk," he says, his smooth voice making you feel much more at ease. You look up at him slowly, being conscious of your current state and well, to put lightly, you look like a total mess. He smiles at you. His magnificent, beautiful, amazing smile, just for you, automatically makes you want to smile back. But you can't. You physically can't. Your jaw and throat are so tired, you're surprised you haven't passed out yet. You thought too soon. You went out like a light. But thankfully, you woke up in Recovery Girl's office, the bright lights blinding you and the heart monitor's beeping making your head hammer. You take a long look around the room, taking in your surroundings. The first thing you notice is the bright red, spiky hair that is obviously Kirishima's. You scan his features, taking in his beautiful, beautiful face and body. He was the most amazing person you had met. You were so thankful to be in his life, and thankful he was in yours. And even more thankful he was in Recovery Girl's office with you. You felt...better. You didn't know what it was, but you felt good. Refreshed. "I love you," you sputter. Your voice, still gross, scratchy as all hell, but you needed to say it. Even if he didn't feel the same way. He smiled, and then chuckled. It was a happy chuckle. Like, a chuckle of relieve, you figure. "I love you too." What? Your eyes grow wide in pure shock. You hadn't expected this- you hadn't expected this at all. You were freaking out. "I- you what? But you have a girlfriend, I- I mean, there is no way you like me more than her, or even *love* me," you ramble. All Kirishima could do was stare. Stare at your beauty. "I'm n-nothing compared to her, she's perfect," you couldn't help but let out a little cry at this, admitting the fact that she was better than you. You were about to continue when you felt a hand on yours. "I don't love Sayaka. I never did. I love you. I always loved you. And I am so, so, so, so sorry that I let it get this far, this wasn't supposed to happen. But I want to make it better. Will you let me make it better?" He still smiles, but his eyebrows are furrowed, worried about your answer. You sit up, grabbing his hand tighter while reaching over to catch him in an embrace. "Yes. Yes. Yes, yes, yes," your voice turns into a whisper, "I love you so much, Eijirou. So much," you barely get out. His grip on you gets tighter, his arms around your back with one hand snaking through your hair. He sniffled, and by then you could tell he was crying too. "God, I was so worried about you. Don't you dare scare me like that again, okay, Pebble?" Pebble. You liked that nickname. It fit. "I won't, I promise. I won't, I won't, I won't." And from that moment on, the pain in your chest was gone.

#bnha #mha #kirishima #kirishima eijirou #kirishima x reader #kirishima scenarios #kirishima headcanons #yaomomo's gf

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whumpingcrow · 3 years

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Ink Poisoning - Chapter 7

Fire and Ice

CW: bbu and everything that relates to that, discussion of noncon drugging, drugs/alcohol, injury description, blood mention, hypothermia/frostbite/basically whumpee left in the cold for too long, whumper playing caretaker, intimate whumper, noncon/dubcon kiss, general noncon/dubcon discussion and themes, sick whumpee, ptsd flashbacks/nightmares (let me know if i missed anything!)

"Jesus Christ, were you trying to kill him?"

"Shut up. Come here, help me keep him up so I can take the belt off."

Hands, warm hands on Gio, grabbing, taking, hurting. He shrinks away from them, he cries out, it hurts, everything hurts, his world is painted bright red with pain all the time, breathing is painful, moving is painful, existing is painful.

"He doesn't look so good, Nicko, I think we gotta go to the hospital-"

"He's fine. Here, hold this."

The world spins and jostles Gio around, and then he's off of the burning cold of the ground, enveloped in heat that's almost too much. It makes all of the dull aching that seems to have frozen overtime thaw out, and he begins to sob, chest heaving, gnawing pain clawing up his throat, and he can't even stop himself. He can't open his eyes, can't move at all, he's only able to cry, and it's just like the first round of training. He thinks, for probably the thousandth time, "I'm really going to die this time, this is really it for me, I'll never heal, it's over it's all over" and he cries and cries and cries.

"It's ok, Gio. You're alright now."

Now he's somewhere else, he doesn't remember leaving the freezing cold nightmare of outside, where he was lonely and shaking until his muscles felt like they were gonna give out and his skin felt like it was falling off. He must be in a bed, now, wrapped up in thick, warm blankets, laying on something sinfully soft. Panic rips through him, but everything is muted just slightly and all he can do to communicate his fear is a measly whine. He can't even open his eyes, they're held shut with a velvety exhaustion, the same one that holds him to the bed that he knows he's not worthy of. He wants to sit up, be awake, but trying to move is too hard, his skin feels like it's all shredded up where it brushes against the sheets. He wants to wake up, he hates to be asleep, he doesn't want to have any more bad dreams. He whimpers again.

"Giovanni, I'm here. I'm right here." He flinches when fingertips trace against his temple, then they are in his hair and he moans miserably. It hurts to be touched, mostly because it isn't enough. Life is agony and he feels like he's dying, he needs more than just a gentle hand in his hair. He needs a hug. He doesn't know if he remembers how to ask for that without sounding pathetically broken, so he doesn't try. He feels scalding hot tears streaming down his cheeks and falling into his hair. "Ugh, I'm so sorry, darling. I went way too far."

Gio doesn't understand. Too far? No, no this is about customary. Text book. Whatever he did, he can't remember now, was bad, bad enough to leave him in this condition, and so that means it was justified. He's never been told sorry before, he's never heard anyone who's hurt him admitting that they went overboard.

"Oh, please stop crying, Gio, you're breaking my heart." The hand is away from his hair, and Giovanni wills the tears to stop. He doesn't want anymore pain.

It takes all of his remaining energy to take in a shaking breath and force himself to whisper "I'm s-sorry, sir." It's rehearsed, even if it's broken up and weak, and he hopes that he says it good enough.

He hears a sigh, then the mattress sinks down a little next to him and the blankets are moved around a little. The cool air of the room slips under the sheets and it makes him shiver. That hurts, too, and he holds his breath until his lungs are tight so that he doesn't cry anymore. Then, strong arms are wrapping around him, drawing him against a body, warm and breathing and surprisingly gentle. He knows that this isn't right, it's not normal for an idiot boxie like him to be held, to be pressed up close against another person underneath covers for no other reason then to be held. Still, it's all he can do to not start bawling in relief as he buries his face against the chest in front of him.

He falls asleep again, nightmares full of blanked out faces and pain he doesn't ever think he'll forget plague his sleep, and every time that he starts to tremble or whine softly, Nicko pulls his wiry frame closer and pets through his hair and whispers that he's ok. He should have been doing this the entire time, he thinks, every time he heard Gio crying in his sleep or waking himself up to gasp and sniffle softly, he should have pulled him up into the bed and held him like this all those times. Now, as he's holding Gio's battered, frostbitten body against his own, he can't believe he was making them both miss out on the comfort. All it takes to calm Gio down enough to sink back into silent sleep is for Nicko to remind him that he's in harmless (for the moment, at least) arms, and then he whispers "you're ok, Gio, I've got you" into his tangled, blood soaked hair, and then he settles back into Nicko's grip and his breathing evens out. Nicko is baffled that it's that easy. He's also shocked at how, even though he hated Gio with everything that was in him hours ago, now he finds himself wanting to never let him go, to be this comfort to him forever.

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Nicko was inconsolable when he came back inside. Rory was the first person to try and talk him down, try to convince him that it wasn't Gio's fault and to let him back inside, but he wanted to listen to her least of all. Instead, he took a few more shots of burning tequila and yelled at her, told her to get out of his house. At first she didn't take him seriously, only grabbed onto him and pulled hard at his clothes, insistent that he "just calm down" because "it wasn't that big of a deal", but once he grabbed her shoulders and told her to get the fuck out of his face, she left in a hurry.

After that, his roommate, Ben, who he'd barely noticed when they passed him in the hallway, came out to the kitchen and sat next to him, pretending he wasn't trying to find Gio out in the dark, snowy backyard as they talked. It took about thirty minutes of Ben trying to timidly suggest that maybe it wasn't entirely Gio's fault before Nicko calmed down. Then, there was another long stretch of time where he carefully made Nicko feel like shit for hurting Gio in the first place, and hours after he tied Gio up there, Ben and Nicko went outside to retrieve him.

He was in much worse condition than Nicko thought he left him in, and he was a little afraid at how not aware he had been. Giovanni had been bleeding from his nose and mouth for who knows how long, and now dark marroon blood was cracked and dried and probably fucking frozen on his face and down his entire front. Even Nicko's belt, that was much too tight around Gio's frail neck, to the point it was bruising him, was covered in blood. His ears were a burning, bright red from the bitter cold, so were his cheeks and the tips of his fingers and toes. other than that, he was ghostly pale. More so than usual, which was concerning. But the most concerning thing of all was that he was passed out, head tipped back against the post and face blank and just unmoving. Nicko wondered if he passed out from the belt, he had thought that he would reach up and take it off himself once Nicko was inside, and he was disappointed in himself for doubting Gio's obedience. He was suddenly all to aware that this kid would do anything he thought Nicko wanted, or at the very least try with everything he has before exhausting himself. Rory, too, but only because he thinks he owes it to Nicko to listen to her as well. And here he is, soaked in his own blood and no doubt bruised from where Nicko kicked him right in his stomach, and he'll be sick from the cold, and he was so high before hand he probably had no idea what was going on.

He was probably so scared. He probably always is. That hadn't even occured to Nicko before, he was seeing him only on the surface, as the boxie he got for cheap to fuck around with, not as a human, not as something so broken and so easily frightened. He felt an overwhelming surge of guilt right then and there, especially when Ben said:

"Jesus Christ were you trying to kill him?"

I don't remember. Maybe I was.

"Shut up. Come here, help me keep him up so I can take the belt off." He had to keep his cool, he had to act calm and unbothered, couldn't let it show how much this shook him up.

Giovanni sounded just pathetic when they tried to situate him, even though they were both incredibly careful. Nicko was thrown off, he'd only heard Gio make noise when he was absolutely out of control with panic, horrified or when something had been hurting him for a long time, and even then it was quite. Well, except the time the Giovanni begged him with such desperation to stop touching him, horrified by his hands on him, the implication of him touching him somewhere else entirely. Nicko had been angry with him too, then, and he was starting to really feel the weight of his remorse.

"He doesn't look so good, Nicko, I think we gotta go to the hospital-"

Oh God, do you think he needs that? Oh fuck, I messed up.

"He's fine." Nicko insisted, mostly because he was horrified of what people would think of him if he brought Giovanni into the emergency room in this condition. They would know he did it, his knuckles were bruised and covered in Gio's dark, dried blood. He hadn't had time to wash it off in between his need to get more fucked up, yelling at Rory, and trying to allow himself to be calmed down. But he had to worry about getting Gio inside first, try to gauge just how bad the damage was. He slipped the belt off from around Giovanni's poor, bruised throat, he gasped feebly in response. Nicko barely caught him with a hand on his shoulder as he collapsed to his side in exhaustion. "Here, hold this."

The belt was passed off, like a baton in a race, and Nicko wasted no time gathering Gio's small, trembling frame against his chest and standing upright with him in his arms.

He didn't bother cleaning either of them off, Gio was much too exhausted for that. It was probably a better idea to get him warm first anyways.

Nicko's heart aches for him as he fades in and out of his dazed, disconnected state, crying when he's present enough to feel his pain.

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Rory doesn't come back after that. Giovanni is sick for the next few days, he barely leaves Nicko's bed the entire time, Nicko works on bringing him back to health, he only drinks a little in the evening, just to be relaxed with Gio while he holds him and tries to sooth him enough to sleep. He's got a fever, hot to the touch and shivering all the damn time. It feels like the cold from outside has buried itself under his skin.

Except for when he's asleep.

When he sleeps, he's burning from the inside out. The mixture of his fever and coming off of the drug that had made him feel so fantastically far away, he remembers the nightmares. Sometimes he wakes up gasping, Shooting up in bed, shoving the too heavy blankets and Nicko's suffocating arms off of him with desperation to get away from the heat, in his dreams he's surrounded by bodies, too close and too hot and hands touching and taking and torturing. Other times, the burning inside is different, it's from dreams where he's all alone, everyone is leaving him, they don't want him he's just not good enough for them. Then, he wakes up and he's grabbing fistfuls of Nicko's clothes, pressing himself closer, closer, begging in a watery, wobbling voice, "Nicko please, please stay. Please don't go. Hold me, don't let go of me please."

So Nicko pulls him closer, and through the drunken, heavy veil of sleep, he finds himself placing soft kisses in Gio's hair, stroking little circles against his ribs, over his sharp shoulder blades, shaking with each gasping breaths.

Nicko misses Rory. He doesn't feel that bad about making her leave, not as awful as he feels for what he did to Gio, but he misses her, nonetheless. He misses a warm body, a touch more than panicked desperation. He finds himself wanting to touch Gio all the time, wants to tattoo him again, or toy around with him while he's completely there, when he can look sort of apprehensive and bothered and mouth-wateringly flustered. He's easy, and Nicko adores it.

When Gio starts to get better, it's relieving to everyone. He had said he didn't want to see Salem, not in this disgustingly sick and disoriented way. Once he gets a little more clearheaded, Salem is glad to see him in the kitchen when he gets home from school. Much too his- and surprisingly Nicko's -disdain, he's usually spending his time out of bed cleaning. He goes until someone insists he stops. They get worried when he gets pale and sways in front of the sink where he's been trying to wash the dishes. Salem often takes him to his room, which Nicko allows, and lays down on the floor with him, music playing softly through his speakers. Nicko, when he finds him in worrying pallor like that, takes him to his bed and asks him to lay down, to rest for a little while. Sometimes he joins him, sometimes he doesn't.

Gio starts to miss Rory when he feels better. He doesn't like how he feels with her drugs out of his system, for no one around to playfully treat him how he deserves; less than a person, more of a toy. Nicko is suddenly too nice and gentle, and Gio doesn't know if he likes it that much. He really doesn't like sleeping in his bed every night, he's too frightened now, especially when he's sober. He misses that amazing feeling he had the last time he saw Rory, even though the high and the new concussion and the fever made him forget almost everything that happened before Nicko came in and hurt him. He knew it was something bad, he was glad he wasn't really there to experience it.

One night, after waking up from another awful, empty and lonely dream, he turned over on the mattress, trying to find Nicko in the dark by dragging his hands across the sheets. He found his warm body, he shivered at how he was slightly overheated from his panic and his need to be close to someone in the obedient way he was supposed to, to be good for Nicko. He pressed himself close, timidly pressing his lips against Nicko's throat until it pulled him back into consciousness. He didn't seem upset about being woken up, simply finding Gio's thigh under the blankets and wrapping his sometimes threatening fingers around it and squeezing it with a pleased hum. Giovanni had tears on his face, they got onto Nicko's neck where Gio was getting closer and closer to Nicko with need and aching and yearning.

"What are you doing, Gio?" He asked. His voice was a hoarse rumble through his chest, Giovanni ran his hand over Nicko's bare chest, and he panted against Nicko's skin. Suddenly Nicko was aware of how bothered and worked up Gio was, and he pulled away from him. His eyes took a second to adjust, and from the streetlight outside, he could vaguely see his darkened, bruised eyes, shining with tears, staring at him wide eyed.

"You're my favorite person, Nicko." Gio was whispering, almost afraid to be admitting it. "I... I want to be close to you all the time. I don't want to bother you but it hu-hurts when I can't be."

He was so earnest when he said it, Nicko didn't think he was lying. He had no reason to, really. Nicko could see through the dark that his wide, permanently panicked eyes were flicking back and forth from Nicko's eyes to his mouth.

"Rory was right," Nicko started, his voice low and gravelly, "you're so cute. Especially when you say things like that."

Giovanni flushed at the words, and he was glad that it was dark enough that Nicko probably couldn't see him blushing hard. "You really think so?" He asked, voice wavering, like he was expecting Nicko to say "no you fucking worthless idiot. Not even a little bit do I think that".

Instead, he reached out and ran his thumb over Gio's cheek, across his jaw, and finally over his bottom lip. He smiled when Gio began to tremble at the touch, breath hitching in a beautiful way that was almost unnoticeable. "Yeah, Gio," he answered, "yeah, I do."

And then, before either of them changed their minds, Nicko pulled him close and kissed him.

Gio melted right into it, pressing his body flush against Nicko's, opening his mouth just a little as an invitation. He was perfect, he was made for this, for kissing and touching this way. But then Nicko felt guilty for thinking that. He had to remind himself constantly, every single time that Giovanni was looking irresistably adorable, that he was trained into being this way. Nicko couldn't even be sure that Gio really wanted it, or if he just thought he did because he knew it was what Nicko wanted. He was reminded again of what he'd realized when he saw Giovanni outside, saw that he hadn't even tried to get the belt off of his neck: Gio would do anything for Nicko. He had just admitted that Nicko was his favorite person, after all. Guilt started eating away at him yet again, so he pulled away from Gio.

"It's late." He mumbled, turning away from Gio altogether. "You need to get your rest so you can feel better."

He was answered by silence, and it made him sigh heavily. He didn't want to upset Gio, but even more he didn't want to use him, not when it didn't mean the same thing to him. "G'night, Giovanni."

Again, Gio was perfectly still and perfectly quiet. When he thought Nicko was asleep, he started to cry softly. He let his tears slide down his cheeks and wet his hair and the pillow. His fingers were pressed tightly to his lips. He wanted the ghost of Nicko's mouth on his to stay there forever. Eventually he exhausted himself, falling asleep crying, aching and burning for Nicko.

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